


Like an Endless Summer

by objectlesson



Series: Endless Summer Verse [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Summer Camp, BDSM, Dom Louis, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Harry is afraid of horses, Horseback Riding, Humor, Impact Play, Louis is so dramatic, M/M, Niall is the resident Beliber, Riding Crops, Slow Burn, Sub Harry, Zayn is a very patient wingman, also a tiny bit of angst and miscommunication!, and Liam is Survivor Man, and there is a very happy ending, everything is resolved though, horse camp, side Ziam, which is not explicit but does happen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-21 20:57:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 87,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11365494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: “You just wanna go fawn over Styles as soon as possible,” Zayn grumbles.“I do not. Plus, he probably got ugly this year. Eighteen is an awkward time...I bet he’s got acne and one of those terrible fuckboy haircuts all the hipsters are getting these days, with the shaved sides? Just watch, the first year we’re gonna get any time together is gonna be the first year I don’t have a stupid crush on him.”---Or, Louis is a riding instructor at a summer camp, and Harry is a fellow counselor who he’s been successfully managing his crush on for the last two summers. That is, until Harry shows up this year leveled up and lethal, and all Louis’s formerly perfected veneer of nonchalance melts like a popsicle in the sun.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thepriestthinksitsthedevil (stubliminalmessaging)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stubliminalmessaging/gifts).



> OH MY GOD, IT'S FINALLY HERE!!!!
> 
> This is the longest 1D fic I've written to date, and boy is it a monster. And it's an AU!!!! I just had so so so much fun with his prompt, THANK YOU thepriestthinksitsthedevil for such creative ideas to choose from. I loved them all, but ended up going with this one: 
> 
> " Summer camp au where the boys work as counselors at a summer camp. Louis has been harbouring a crush on Harry FOREVER because he's always been cute and charming but he's never done anything about it because Harry's never shown any obvious signs of being into him. But then this summer rolls around and he sees Harry again for the first time since last summer and SHIT - cute cherubic Harry Styles got tall and beefy since last summer and now Louis feels like he can barely keep his hands to himself and his eyes off of Harry and he's probably becoming way too obvious. It's up to you how it happens but I'd like for them to get together please :)" 
> 
> In one of my old fandoms I ended up writing a horse camp AU that got pretty popular, and ever since then I always think of all my OTPs in a horse camp scenario, so this was just the perfect set up and I couldn't resist it. Also couldn't resist the idea of Louis in riding breeches??!! So here it is. I sincerely hope it's everything you hoped for and that your summer is a spectacular one. Happy reading!

Louis squints in the sunlight, eyes watering behind the lenses of his aviators, feet kicked up on the dashboard beside Zayn’s as they ritualistically share the very last blunt of the summer, passing it back and forth in a lazy, comfortable silence. It’s bright outside, too bright, and the air is humming with insects, although Louis can’t actually see any. They’re parked a few miles down the road before the turn-off they’ll eventually take, car hidden behind a sparse row of pine trees. The windows are rolled down, but Louis is still sweating in the stagnant mountain heat, distantly paranoid that his clothes are gonna smell like skunk after this, that he’ll consequently get fired from his summer job before he even starts it. “Your Axe spray is accessible, right? We aren’t gonna have to unpack your entire duffle bag to find it?” he asks, blowing a thin billow of smoke out the window, watching it curl through the beams of light filtering in through the trees. He always forgets how _pretty_ it is up here, how nice nature looks when you aren’t neck deep in it. 

Zayn coughs, “ _Yeah_ , I already told you. You asked me, like, three times, and why are you so obsessed with my deodorant, anyway?” He’s glaring critically at Louis from the passenger side, wearing a fucking leather _jacket_ in spite of the sweat beading at his hairline, dark eyes glittering. Zayn is _like_ that, would rather look cool than feel cool, even if he's alone in the woods with his goddamned _best friend_ , about to spend two months straight in a _Sierra Trails Adventure Camp_ shirt surrounded by literal children. 

“Nice jacket,” Louis snickers, “and I’m only being _responsible_. Don’t wanna show up at orientation smelling like we hot-boxed a car, right?” he explains. “Would much rather reek of Axe, seventh-grade locker room, you know,” he gestures loosely and dramatically with his hand, a natural, unfettered motion he knows he’s going to have to start biting back in a few hours, once they get to camp. It’s not like he thinks it will be an _issue_ if his fellow counselors know he’s gay…it’s just that they haven’t known for the last two years, so telling them is an _event_ now. He’d rather not talk about it, rather it not be a big deal. It’s much easier being Louis Tomlinson who conveniently knows every character from _Hannah Montana_ and can sing the entire _Moulin Rouge_ soundtrack because he’s _a fabulous counselor_ , than Louis Tomlinson who knows every character from _Hannah Montana_ and can sing the entire _Moulin Rouge_ soundtrack because he’s _gay_. He’s twenty years old and mostly out at home, and he _knows_ it’s an absurd distinction to make at his age, but he isn’t isolated up in the Sierra Nevadas, swimming in a lake and sharng a cabin with a bunch of athletic, outdoorsy dudes at home, so. It’s not _that_ absurd to feel like things are different here. 

“You won’t even need it, this weed is shit, man. Hardly smells, so _for sure_ , it isn’t getting me high,” Zayn grumbles, taking the blunt from between Louis’s index and middle fingers. “Is the Axe…are you, like, trying to attract Styles by making yourself smell like his natural habitat?” Zayn says then, corner of his mouth twitching up into a muted smile. 

“Oi! Inappropriate!” Louis snaps, kicking Zayn in the shin hard enough that he makes a face. It does the exact opposite of what he intended, though, because now Zayn is _looking at him accusatorially_ , visibly wondering why he hit a nerve. Louis flounders, mouth opening and closing wordlessly for a moment as he tries to remember how to talk. “He’s not in the _seventh grade_ , he’s officially eighteen this summer, I’ll have you know,” Louis explains far too quickly. “Anyway, I don’t even like him like that anymore, that is _so last year_.” 

Zayn looks unimpressed, dark brows raised into elegant, skeptical arches. “Riggghhhttt. Last year and the year before that and…April, last I heard. Do you remember when you got drunk at that one frat party around Easter? We were playing fuck/marry/kill, and—”

“I don’t want to hear this, you’re being unfair. I drank _rum_ , and rum makes me lie,” Louis babbles, clearly lying even though he hasn’t had rum in _months_. 

“Shut _up_ , every single game, you said, ‘I’d marry Harry Styles,’ even though not a single fucking person at that party knew who he was, and the options were, like, Ryan Gosling, Justin Bieber, and Jude Law. You were a disaster. It was so embarrassing. You cried while you puked in the sink about how you wished it was summer already so you could see Harry again. I’m not even _kidding_ , I had to console you over it.” 

Louis makes a pouty face at Zayn and says what he says whenever he's been rendered defenseless: “Well, I hate you.” The thing is, he knows _full well_ that he’s not over his perpetual summer-camp crush, the two years younger and two tons of charming junior counselor-turned-not-so-junior Harry Styles, who generally stars in all of Louis’s summer fantasies and apparently his school-year ones, too, if Zayn’s telling the truth (he is; Louis unfortunately remembers more of that party than he cares to admit). 

The Harry Thing is infuriating because Harry might be incredibly sweet and have an amazing smile, but he isn’t exactly drop-dead gorgeous or anything. He’s _not_ the sort of boy that Louis should be fixated on for so long, not the sort of boy you, say, write a letter home from camp about. Harry is sort of tall and uncoordinated and not necessarily the best at his job (he’s great with kids but can’t play volleyball or teach an archery lesson to save his _life_ ). He’s cute like a floppy puppy, and he’s outrageously nice and charismatic and has a mop of curls that get steadily more and more mussed and overgrown the longer camp goes on, but there’s no concrete reason for Louis to _still_ harbor a stomach-churning crush on him, especially when he’s a fucking teenager fresh out of high school. But here Louis is, pretending the nervous bubble of energy that has been swelling in his solar plexus for the entirety of his and Zayn’s seven-hour drive from LA to the high Sierras has nothing at all to do with seeing Harry again.

“So, he _is_ eighteen this year, right? Not a JC anymore,” Zayn says, wrinkling his nose at their subpar blunt. “Gonna be shacking up with him now, Tommo. Plus, he’ll be at orientation. Maybe this is the summer you finally do something about it…your summer of love.” 

These points are true and also sources of great anxiety for Louis. Senior counselors attend a (paid, thank god) orientation three days before the commencement of camp to discuss rules, lesson plans, safety, and other useless shit, and Harry is, officially, a senior counselor now.

This is how Sierra Trails Adventure Camp works: they hire junior counselors, or JCs, ranging in age from fifteen to seventeen. JCs’ responsibilities are limited to supervising kids at lunch and other unstructured free time, herding them from one activity to the next, participating in camp-wide events like capture the flag and overnight hikes, and spending the night in a designated age group’s cabin to make sure nothing suspicious happens when campers are supposed to be asleep. Once they turn eighteen, they graduate from JCs to SCs with a pay raise and a specialized area of expertise. Sierra Trails consists of four major activities, all designed to help with team-building, maturity, independence, and whatever other garbage lessons parents think they’re paying for when they ship their kids off to the mountains for two months out of the summer: arts and crafts (Elmer’s glue, macaroni, and construction paper; insufferably lame), survival (glorified Eagle Scouts; lame but sufferable), archery (arguably the coolest), and horsemanship (actually the coolest. Also where Louis and Zayn have worked for their last two summers). Most importantly, senior counselors don’t sleep with the campers in their cabins, save for a single chief counselor. They share their own cabins, meaning the likelihood of Louis sharing a cabin with Harry Styles for the first time since he started working at Sierra Trails Adventure Camp _skyrockets_ this year. It’s not like Louis is _excited_ or anything; camp cabins aren’t exactly the best place to put the moves on a boy or whatever, but still. Seeing Harry Styles in his PJs, maybe sharing a contraband beer with him after the campers have fallen asleep? That’s something he can get behind. 

“Speaking of orientation,” Louis says, thoroughly snuffing out their shared blunt in the still-melting ice of the gas-station Mountain Dew Big Gulp he’d picked up somewhere along the 5 before tossing the roach decidedly out the window. “We gotta go, or we’re gonna be late.” 

“You just wanna go fawn over Styles as soon as possible,” Zayn grumbles, tucking his legs up under himself again, wincing as his knees pop. 

“I do not. Plus, he probably got ugly this year. Eighteen is an awkward time...I bet he’s got acne and one of those terrible fuckboy haircuts all the hipsters are getting these days, with the shaved sides? Just watch, the first year we’re gonna get any time together is gonna be the first year I don’t have a stupid crush on him.” 

And as Louis pulls back onto the road, windows rolled down to air out the car, he has _no idea at all_ how very, very wrong he is. He just drums his fingers on the dash and sighs, wondering how everyone has changed since last summer: if Liam has let go of his impractical and germaphobic habit of slathering hand sanitizer on everything, even though they’re at a fucking summer camp, if Perrie got her braces off, if Harry, who has the nicest smile, who talks so slowly and carefully and has seemingly endless patience for giving younger campers piggyback rides across the lake-beach, _finally_ isn’t distractingly cute anymore. _You won’t know how you feel until you see him, so quit_ , he scolds himself, focusing instead on how the breeze smells like pine and citrus and fresh soil, the earthy, artichokey scent of summer bearclover. He takes off his snapback so the wind can flutter through his hair and tries not to think about Harry Styles. 

—-

Shortly after arriving at orientation, Louis gives up on the possibility of _not_ thinking about Harry Styles ever again. He’s pretty sure he’s never gonna think about anything else until he dies. 

Sure, Louis has had a crush on Harry for forever. Harry, who pulls this face that makes him look like a frog. Harry, who got such a terrible sunburn two years ago he had to spend the last week of camp hiding in the shade while his pale back blistered up and later wept and peeled, which was disgusting but also somehow endearing. Harry, who has hair shaped like a muffin and really weird knobby toes and who swims like a very small dog with too much fur. Harry, whose eyes are so green they look like apple lollipops or something. He’s always, _always_ had the sort of magnetic charm that makes people want to stay in the radiant warmth of his smile--that, or punch holes in the wall (maybe that’s just Louis). He has had a crush on _that_ Harry, adorable and cheeky and sort of skinny and chubby at the same time in the way that only teenage boys can be. And Louis could get _away_ with having a crush on that Harry because he was the sort of attractive Louis could exist around, the sort of attractive Louis could _tease_ without being obvious, keeping himself in check, playful, flirty but not, like… _speechless_ or anything. 

Those days are over. 

Louis is not, in any way, prepared for the version of Harry Styles that shoulders his way out of his mom’s beat-up minivan. Louis is just innocently standing next to Liam, who’s already going on and on about last semester’s economics class, which apparently really changed the way he thinks about finances (this is a normal Liam topic: even after an entire year of having not seen Louis, he thinks it’s perfectly fine to just launch into detailed descriptions of the most astoundingly mundane shit, shit so borring it’s almost impressive). Louis nods along, pleased to see Liam even if he doesn’t and never will care about economics, when the van rolls up, and some deep-seated gut feeling tips him off that it’s Harry. 

Still, even though he _knows_ that’s Harry’s car, he’s wholly unprepared for what happens next. Which is, like, Venus emerging from a shell on an ocean wave or something. Louis doesn’t even _recognize_ the improbably hot _man-thing_ that emerges from the van, flushed cheeks and tousled hair and shoulders that fill out the cut of his clingy white V-neck in a way that Harry’s shoulders have _never_ done before. Louis blinks, suddenly dry-mouthed, stunned that this could be happening to him, that some leveled-up version of his summer-camp crush is so rudely _attacking him_ right now. 

The thought stuck on repeat in his mind (although not comprehensive) is true, and that is, _wow, he got tall_. And he did get tall. Taller, anyway. He also got tan and toned, not buff exactly, but not the reedy, pale, mostly-hair beanpole Louis remembers when he’s sad and drunk. The older counselor girls used to good-naturedly tease Harry by calling him Snow White because he’s so fair and green-eyed and has this unusually lush mouth that gets pinker the more chapped it gets, which is a terrible thing because it’s already terrifically pink and it always gets chapped over the summer. This _guy_ , though, is not Snow Fucking White. He’s like Snow White _and_ her glittering forest prince _and_ the entire _forest_ all wrapped up into one or something, and Louis thinks he might have to fling himself off a mountain to keep from turning into a _truly_ embarrassing person this summer--he can’t possibly be expected to keep himself together in the face of such wretched beauty. 

Louis yelps reflexively and hides behind Liam, who has no idea what’s going on and luckily is very easy to position accordingly. Liam blathers on some more about economics, and Louis narrows his eyes in concentration, stealing horrified glances over Liam’s shoulder at Harry, or at least the gorgeous, tan, strong-looking, tousle-haired Venus who just got out of Harry’s car. 

He’s wearing skin-tight black skinny jeans that are torn at the knees, and this, _this_ is new, too. Louis remembers him in baggy denim or khakis or, like, _cargo shorts_ when he wasn’t wearing trunks in the lake, never fucking _skinnies_ , how is this even real. There also might be a constellation of small, weird tattoos on the inside of his left bicep--that, or Harry spent his drive doodling on himself in pen. Regardless, Louis is being forced to think about the _skin_ up near Harry’s armpit, soft and sweat-dewy and possibly _tattooed_ , and between that and his _hair_ , which is no longer muffin-shaped and instead is tumbling down to his chin in soft, loose, tawny curls, is enough to make Louis _reel_ in shock. 

Louis watches in combined outrage and disgust as Harry cutely bends down to hug his mom and kiss her goodbye on the cheek after squeezing her for an eternity. So, he’s still a kind, sweet, mom-kissing sort of boy. Wonderful. Harry cards his hand through his hair after he lets her go, making it even messier than it already is, and Louis _of course_ imagines what it might feel like under his _own palm_ , if he ever got to touch Harry’s newly long locks, mussed and soft and faintly sweaty from the car. It’s only been, like, two minutes of this torture, and he has a whole two _months_ ahead of him, and he is going to _die_. 

“What are you staring at? Are you even listening?” Liam asks, only just now noticing that perhaps he doesn’t have Louis’s full attention. Liam could probably witness Louis sucking dick in front of him and _still_ not conclude that he was gay, so Louis isn’t terribly concerned about getting caught, but he goes all tight-lipped and awkward when he gets called out anyway, crossing his arms and standing in front of Liam with an open mouth and burning cheeks. Liam is clueless but not stupid, so he follows Louis’s formerly locked gaze until it falls on Harry, who is currently standing with his fellow ex-JCs, trading excited reunion hugs. “Oh, look, Styles grew his hair out and got tall,” Liam observes. Louis is wildly scanning the crowd for Zayn, who he somehow _lost_ , desperate for a reason to leave their immediate vicinity, when Liam _starts heading toward Harry and his friends_ , all grins and enthusiasm, and _no_ , no, Louis is not ready for that.

“Hey,” he says through his teeth, grabbing Liam’s arm and dragging him decidedly away from the crowd, “let’s go.” 

“Go _where_?” Liam snaps, stumbling but otherwise allowing himself to be pulled away. “I was gonna welcome the new counselors, and everyone is over there,” he says, pointing, and Louis must be a fucking masochist because he follows the point with his eyes, even though he _knows_ that’s where the terrifyingly, stomach-churningly hot version of a boy he’s _already_ stupid over is standing, surrounded by people _fawning all over him_ , complimenting him on how grown up he looks. “Louis, wrong direction,” Liam tries in a last-ditch effort to redirect. 

“There’s only _one_ direction , Payno, c’mon,” Louis snarls, putting himself behind Liam and marching him down the trail, their shoes crunching on mulch and gravel. “And it’s this direction.” 

“What is even in _this_ direction? The fire pit? Why are we going to the _fire pit_ this early, what is your deal?”Liam asks, trudging along ahead of Louis obediently. 

“We’re looking for Zayn,” Louis half-lies. He _does_ want to find Zayn and detail the emergency to him asap, but he also strongly doubts he’ll find him sitting on the weathered, splintery benches circling the campfire pit, where everyone will gather at the end of the day to tell stories, do skits, sing songs, and what have you for the duration of camp. Zayn, who still manages to take himself somewhat seriously for a camp counselor, _hates_ campfire; it’s, like, the bane of his summer existence. He’s not going to be here unless he absolutely has to be. 

Liam catches on fast, narrowing his eyes. “Zayn’s at the _fire pit?_ ” he asks skeptically. 

“I don’t know where he actually is! I just know we’re going to be spending every waking minute with those people for two full months, so I’m not _eager_ to get all cuddly. I’d rather secure my spot at the pit before everyone comes in and leaves us the wobbly benches,” Louis explains, plopping down on a familiar bench near the back, the one with _s + m forever_ etched into it. Last summer, Zayn tried to carve _b + d_ before the _s_ , but the wood has hardened in its old age, and all that remains of his attempts are a series of awkward scratches. Louis rubs at them fondly, thinking back on all the time he spent sitting around this fire pit, sometimes beside Harry Styles, nudging his ankle with his toe, snickering at nothing, playing with his hair and braiding it with clumsy fingers, flirting and getting away with it. _Fuck_. This summer is going to be so _different_ , and he doesn’t want that. This is just a seasonal job, a way for Louis to make money and spend time around horses because horses are something he _misses_ when he isn’t riding.

Liam is looking at him critically, like, _finding good spots around the fire pit_ is a flimsy excuse for dragging him away from everyone, and the thing is, Louis knows he’s right. “ _All_ the benches are wobbly, Louis. It’s just a fact of life. Also, there’s nowhere to sit that won’t get smoke blown in your face at some point, so if you’re counting on _good spots_ at campfire, I suggest—” 

“Zayn!” Louis wails, for in that exact moment, a wild Zayn emerges from the woods, hands shoved in his pockets and shoulders hunched in the heat of that _still absurd_ leather jacket. Louis would give him a hard time about it, but he’s too relieved to even think of a proper barb. “Come over here _immediately_ , I have terrible news,” he beckons frantically. 

“Where did you guys _go?_ I got caught up chatting with that JC Perrie…you remember her? Blonde, friends with Styles and that Niall kid?” Zayn asks, and Louis gasps dramatically, hand spread over his newly palpitating heart. 

“Zayn do not _speak_ of Harry Styles,” he hisses as Zayn plops down next to him. Liam’s gaze bounces between the two of them like a ping-pong ball, and he’s wearing one of his _vexed_ expressions, which is slightly more confused than his normally confused expression. “By which I mean _we need to discuss Harry Styles asap._ ” 

Zayn makes a knowing face, eyes flicking to Liam like he only just now realized he was there. “Oi! Payno, hey, sorry, man, Lou whisked you away before I got a chance to say hello,” he mumbles, reaching across Louis to hug Liam fiercely. “Good to see you.” 

“No worries, Louis was just being his strange self,” Liam says, voice muffled against the squeaky leather over Zayn’s shoulder. “I still don’t know what’s going on, but I _do_ remember Perrie, how’s she?” 

Zayn pulls away, eyebrows raised and lips pursed. “ _Dude_. Did you _see_ her? She got _really_ hot. I’m, like…I don’t know. Mind _blown_. Who knew.” 

Louis throws his head back and lets out a wordless keening sound, impatient and frustrated by not being the center of this conversation, which is somehow indirectly related to the very real problem he needs help with, pronto. He stomps his Vans like a child in the dirt until a small dust cloud arises, and Zayn finally sighs and turns to address his award-winning pout. “I saw Styles, too, he gave me a hug and everything. Sorry, Lou, but you’re just gonna have to be professional and deal with it. He’s your coworker now.” 

“But I caaaaaaan’t,” Louis whines, doubling over and hiding his face in his knees, tugging pitifully at the strings hanging from his cutoffs. “I am _human_ , and I need to be _loved_ , just like everybody else does.” 

Liam, who has probably never heard a Smiths song in his entire life, has the nerve to ask, “Oh, no, Louis, do you have a beef with Harry Styles? I thought you guys were friends! He’s actually a really, really nice guy. Like, freakishly nice. Worked-at-a-bakery nice. I’m sure you can work out whatever happened betw—”

“ _Thank you, Liam_ , I _know_ he’s nice, that’s not the problem,” Louis groans, slumping against Zayn. “It’s, like…his tan. And the way his shirts fit him now, s’terrible. I can’t stand it.” 

Last summer, this would have gone right over Liam’s head. He would have said something about how fitted shirts and tans didn’t _prove_ someone was a d-bag, that there were better judges of character in the world. Instead, his brows just fly to his hairline, eyes widening. “ _Oh_ , oh. Got it. You like him,” Liam blurts, and Louis is so stunned by this remarkable turn of events that he doesn’t even have a witty retort. 

“Yeah, Louis has liked Harry for _years_ , s’pitiful, really,” Zayn says, patting Louis on the back sympathetically, acting like it’s not shocking in the least that _Liam Payne_ , who brings _hand sanitizer to summer camp_ and has an archery bow named _Lance_ , has managed to pick up on the subtle nuances of Louis’s well-concealed crush. 

“Aw, s’not pitiful, it’s cute. You two would make an adorable couple,” Liam offers, reaching for Louis’s knee and clapping it, very reassuring and very straight, all at the same time. Louis is sort of baffled. 

“I never even told you I’m _gay_ , how would _you_ know what kind of couple we’d make?” Louis asks nonsensically, drawing an x-eyed sad face in the dirt with the toe of his beat-up slip-on. 

“Oh, come _on_ , Tommo. You know like every character from _Hannah Montana _and can sing the entire _Moulin Rouge_ soundtrack. You don’t need to tell me you’re gay for me to know. And I have _eyes_ , don’t be dumb,” he admonishes, sounding offended, and really. ‘“It’s fine, I don’t mind at all.” __

__“Sorry,” Louis mumbles sheepishly. “I just…it was one thing when he was just cute little Curly with his…curls. But now he’s, like, an actual model-type, and I’ve relied heavily on acting normal around him and, like, teasing him and stuff, but I can’t tease him if I can’t even look at him without puking, so…I guess I’m just going to be vomiting all over everything all summer long. Sorry, boys,” he says, collapsing in dismay all over both of their laps. It hits him for a second that this is the first time he’s thrown himself into Liam’s lap since realizing that Liam officially knows he’s gay, and he wonders if it’s gonna be weird, but then he decides that he has more important things to worry about than whether or not Liam’s lap is fair game anymore._ _

__“You are so dramatic,” Zayn says, rolling his eyes. “It’s, like, the shock hasn’t worn off yet. You saw him, he looked really hot, and then you ran away, but you gotta give yourself time to get used to him. I mean, he looks more grown up, but he’s not _that_ different, he’s still the same Harry, right? Like, when I was hanging with Perrie and Niall and him, he was trying to hold, like, two hundred things in his hands at once, and he ended up spilling his water bottle all over himself. Total klutz still.” _ _

__Louis’s now picturing Harry’s white shirt all wet and clinging to his glorious body, and this is _not helping_. He whines again, shutting his eyes tightly and flailing a little. “That’s _hot_ and _charming_ and only makes everything worse. I also resent that the guy wearing a _leather jacket_ in the woods is calling _me_ dramatic.” _ _

__Zayn doesn’t get a chance to defend himself, though, because Louis hears the crowd approaching, the rest of the counselors chatting as they all head down to the fire pit for ice breakers, so he sits bolt-upright, nearly head-butting Liam in the process. “I can’t do this,” he panics._ _

__“Yes, you can, don’t be ridiculous. You’re fucking _Tommo_ , the life of the party, and everyone at camp _loves_ you, so please chill out,” Zayn snaps, struggling out of his leather jacket and dropping it decidedly onto Louis’s head. “Chill. Manifest chillness. _Become_ the chill.” _ _

__Louis doesn’t feel very chill at all as he sees Harry rounding the bend of the trail, bent over with Perrie riding on his back, both of them shrieking and laughing and acting not _at all_ like brand-new senior counselors. If it was anyone other than Harry, Louis would have half a mind to issue a reprimand and remind them that they aren’t JCs anymore, but it _is_ Harry, which means this thing is fucking interfering with Louis’s _job_ , which is…well, it’s absolutely terrible. Louis prides himself on being a very good camp counselor, even if he makes fun of himself for it most of the time. He’s good at balancing safety and fun, and if Harry’s new mermaid-Tarzan sort of sexiness is gonna throw a wrench in that, _something_ needs to change. _ _

__“Okay, okay, I’m gonna get this over with,” he tells Zayn and Liam, shouldering Zayn’s (too tight and wet with sweat, gross) leather jacket on over his Skate Tough shirt, squaring it resolutely as he smoothes his hair. “M’gonna go act normal in front of Harry Styles. Watch me.”_ _

__With that, he stalks over to the group of new senior counselors, hands on his hips, ready to spout something about how they better start setting examples for campers now because when the kids actually get here, there won’t be time to mess up. He never gets the words out, though, because as soon as Harry sees him, he gets all bright-eyed and excited, gently putting Perrie back down on the ground before rushing over, nearly tripping and face-planting over a root along the way. He may be newly gorgeous, but he’s not newly coordinated, and it makes Louis feel only _slightly_ better, but not better enough to cope with the fact that Harry is _barreling_ toward him like his long-lost dog or something. “Louis!” he cries breathlessly, and it would be _so awkward and weird_ to refuse a hug from him, so Louis just holds his arms out, braced for impact. _ _

__Harry hits him, and it feels…good. Too good._ _

__Harry is so warm and so solid, and he smells _so fucking nice_ that Louis immediately remembers why the answer to any fuck/marry/kill scenario is always _marry Harry Styles_. He can’t breathe because Harry is squeezing him so tightly, face tucked onto his neck, hair everywhere, and _fuck, he got so big_ , he’s not, like, a huge, buff type of guy by any standards, but Liam used to _bench_ press him. This is unreal and unfair, and Louis is gonna _swoon_ , so it’s a good thing that Harry’s holding him up. “Harry,” he says feebly, smiling in spite of himself, “I didn’t even recognize you before.” _ _

__“Sorry, sorry, I saw you and then got caught up in people and couldn’t find you again afterward, but, like, _hi_ , hello, I’m so, so happy see you!” Harry enthuses, and although it all falls out of him with some speed and force, it’s still sort of slow and syrupy because that’s just now Harry _talks_ , like, no matter how excited he is, he still can’t reach maximum velocity. It’s so fucking endearing. Louis is beaming at him like an idiot, and he can’t hide it in Harry’s gloriously built shoulder anymore because Harry is letting him go, keeping his hands on Louis’s biceps but sliding away, holding his gaze with those sincere green eyes. _ _

__“It’s no problem, good to see you, too,” Louis mumbles, trying not to sweep his gaze too obviously up Harry’s body. “I sort of forgot you turned eighteen,” he lies, head cocked, “so congratulations on graduating from junior counseling! Any idea what activity you want to specialize in? You obviously know horsemanship is the right answer,” he teases, which is good, teasing is good, but _inviting Harry to teach with him on his activity of choice is not_ , so he’s momentarily flooded with panic before Harry shrugs, wrinkles his nose, and makes that stupid frog face. _ _

__“I knowwww, and you guys are so cool, and I admire you, like, so much, but I dunno if you remember? M’like, _terrified_ of horses. When the kids do their trail rides, I sort of wave from the sidelines, but overall they’re, like…way too big. Way too full of secrets and mystery. I respect horses, but there’s no way I could stay in the unit for the whole summer…I’m sort of hoping for arts and crafts?” _ _

__“Arts and crafts!?” Louis says, before dissolving into giggles. Harry Styles, gluing macaroni to construction paper. Harry Styles, with glitter in his mermaid-Tarzan hair. It’s sort of perfect, and although it might be the absolute lamest activity at Sierra Trails Adventure Camp, at least the counselors get to sit in the shade most days and are essentially getting paid to sort pipe cleaners and sharpen pencils, so it’s easy money. And Harry would look amazing with glitter in his hair. “You won’t get bored? I’d be bored out of my mind doing arts and crafts all day.”_ _

__“No, not at all!” Harry assures him, shaking his head, and _there’s_ the old Harry, the one with the stupid-cute dimple and the lovely white flash of a smile. Louis can see him, the innocent brightness shining through the sexiness like a pearl embedded in…glitter. Mermaid scales. Or something. “I _love_ just hanging out with the kids and helping them with their projects. I don’t need much more than that, really. I like seeing their pictures and making stuff for them to bring home to their families.” _ _

__Louis stares, thinking the answer to every question in every universe is _marry Harry Styles_. “Well, good for you. Someone has to do that stuff, I guess. _Anyway_ , hope your school year was…nice…and, like, I suppose I’ll see you around,” Louis finishes awkwardly before ducking back in Liam and Zayn’s direction, sweating in his borrowed leather and thinking, _mayday, mayday, marry Harry Styles_ , in a cruel, nonsensical loop._ _

__“Yeah,” Harry says, reaching out and squeezing Louis’s _wrist_ with one of those stupidly huge hands that he might have actually, finally grown into. “Maybe we can share a cabin together!” Harry adds, too chipper, and all Louis can manage is a weak smile as his brain melts down and transitions into a flashing neon sign, _MAYDAY, MAYDAY.__ _

__He sneaks off and slumps back down next to Zayn, head in his hands. “How did it go? Looked good. Looked chill, like you embodied chillness,” Zayn says, tugging his jacket back off Louis’s shoulders._ _

__“You guys,” he says gravely, looking somber-faced and very, very serious, “I am _not_ going to survive this summer.”_ _


	2. Chapter 2

Louis manages to make it through the entirety of their orientation introduction without perishing, which seems like a laudable feat. They play two truths and a lie, do some dumb exercise where they talk about strengths and weaknesses (Harry’s self-perceived strengths are _m’nice, I love kids, and I have a cool singing voice_ , which is really so fucking cute, what the hell), and go over camp rules and regulations ad nauseum. Louis is very glad that this is his third year as a senior counselor and that he knows the drill at this point because he missed the entirety of the presentation, too busy staring at the back of Harry’s head and digging his nails into Zayn’s arm in agony to hear any details. The chief counselors pass out the hideously ugly Sierra Trails Adventure Camp T-shirts (the color this year is _pea-soup green_ ; Louis wants to gag), and everyone reluctantly trudges off to the bathrooms to change. Everyone except for Harry Styles, who is chatting animatedly with Niall and just pulls his white T-shirt over his head _right there at the fire pit_ before tugging on his camp shirt, beaming down at the logo dorkily. 

“No eighteen-year-old should have a back like that. Too pretty,” Louis grumbles as he and Zayn start lugging their duffle bags out of the car and up the steep, winding trail to their cabin of choice, 14C. It’s one of the older, shittier cabins, but it has real honest-to-god bunkbeds, which is a thrilling camp novelty that the newer cabins have done away with for “safety” reasons. “Also, can you believe he looks good in _pea-soup green?_ The girl from the exorcist could vom on him, and he’d still be—”

“Louis,” Zayn cuts him off and rounds on him, blocking the trail with his elbows on his waist. “Look, I love you. You’re my best friend, and I’m always here for you…but I _cannot_ stand two months with no internet and no XBox if you’re going to be moping about Styles in my ear the whole time. I just can’t. You’re going to have to get it together.” 

Louis’s face crumples, and he pouts spectacularly. “I _knowwww_ , I know, I’m being so annoying. But Zayn. _Zayn_. What else am I supposed to do?! You’re the only one here who knows the true extent of my romantic woes,” Louis wails, about three seconds away from launching into the Abridged History of Louis Tomlinson’s Failed College Relationship Attempts. 

The thing is, Louis is so, so bad at casual hookups, the only thing he had no trouble finding in college. It seems like every gay guy in Southern California wants a nameless blow job, some aspirin in the morning, and a fake number. He’s the Only One interested in an honest-to-god dating situation. _Marry Harry Styles_ , his mind helpfully tells him, and he mutters back, “Shut up.” 

Zayn sighs, slinging an arm around Louis’s shoulder and guiding him up the trail. “You can’t tell me to shut up when I haven’t even said anything.” 

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Louis explains. “Just…I haven’t even gotten _laid_ in forever. This is doubly torturous.” 

“It’s _your_ fault you haven’t gotten laid! Plenty of guys at school want to fuck you. I can name, like, six. S’your fault you’re the weirdest and most old-fashioned twenty-year-old in the world. Wanting to buy guys flowers and take them out on fancy dates or whatever. Maybe you should change your expectations.” 

Louis rolls his eyes, so fucking sick of having this conversation with Zayn over and over again. Zayn, who doesn’t understand because he’s bisexual and has no _desire_ to date guys. Zayn, who’s perfectly happy with anonymous club dick because he can always find _girlfriends._ “You’re not being fair, though. S’not about _flowers_ or dates, I just, like…want to actually get to know people? And I want to, like, cuddle and watch movies and get stoned together and have a proper _boyfriend_ , that’s _not_ that weird or unrealistic, thank you very _much_ ,” Louis snaps, struggling a little with the old brass key to 14C. The door creaks open, and they’re struck suddenly with the overwhelming smell of mildew and old wood. 

“Ah, home sweet home,” Zayn sighs, dumping his duffle bag onto the top bunk beside the door. “Get the window open so we can air this fucker out.” 

Louis makes a face, not exactly stoked about having his totally reasonable dating expectations flat-out ignored by his best friend. He cracks a window, sneezing in the plume of dust that explodes from it. There are dead spiders on the sill, and it’s more than a little dirty in here, but he loves it all the same. “All I’m saying is that _I don’t think_ my dating standards are _truly_ to blame for the fact that I haven’t been laid in forever. It’s, like, a cultural problem.” 

“No, I agree, and it sucks there isn’t more, like, _dating material_ out there in the world for gay guys or whatever. All _I’m_ saying is that whether or _not_ you’d been laid recently, I think you’d still have this massive crush on Harry Styles. Because he’s, like, exactly your type, the type of guy you’d want to date regardless. So you need to get over yourself and find a way to deal with it instead of crying and whining about it to me every second like you’re being _victimized_. Okay?” Zayn says, climbing up his bunk and collapsing on the squeaky rubber mattress. “God, these things are worse than I remember. Worse every year, really.” 

Louis forces himself to bite back his reflexive _I_ am, _being victimized!_ in favor of a deep, rattling inhalation. Zayn…Zayn requires patience sometimes. He’s like an infuriatingly beautiful woodland nymph who talks in sideways riddles all the time, and if Louis offends him or talks too much, he fucks off into the ether to draw or ignore him or pet his horse or be an introvert or whatever. As a needy and social person, Louis requires more than that, so he has to take deep breaths, rewind, and consider Zayn’s (often wrong, but whatever) opinions before retaliating with a more guarded version of his prior concern. He lets a few seconds of silence pass before carefully saying, “Okay, I’m overreacting, I get that. And I’m not going to complain constantly, I get that, too. But, like…Zayn. What do you _really_ suggest I do? This is my job, and I honestly can hardly breathe around Harry right now. I don’t want the whole summer to be me hiding and hyperventilating and lusting after a kid _two years younger than me_. That’s…”

“Pitiful,” Zayn offers, genuinely trying to be helpful, but Louis still shoots him a withering look from his own bunk. “Look, I’m sorry, but it’s true. You either have to get over him, which seems unlikely because it’s been going strong for two years and that was when he was still dorky, or you have to, like…I don’t know. Make a move. It needs to be _resolved_ , Louis, so you can move on.” 

“I can’t just _tell him,_ I don’t even know if he likes boys, and we’re gonna spend two months in close quarters. It’ll be weird,” Louis sighs, unpacking his slippery nylon sleeping bag. 

“Don’t _tell_ him right away! Just…play it cool. Hang out with him. Do, like, reconnaissance first, find out if you’ve been in love with a straight guy for a million years, or if you have an actual chance. Which, by the way, I think you do. M’not just saying that as your best friend, I get vibes from him. Especially now that he’s a little older and less awkward.” 

“You do?! I mean, I do, too, but I can’t tell if it’s just me projecting, like, wishful thinking,” he explains, combing his fingers through his hair, already feeling itchy with potential mosquito bites, already annoyed with the minor discomforts of sleeping in the fucking woods. It’s going to be a long two months. “When I hugged him at the fire pit, he was all, ‘Maybe we can room together!!’ like…fuck. Kill me,” Louis groans, but Zayn sits up and narrows his eyes, brows raised like that’s new and important information. 

“He _said_ that? Also, where the fuck is Payno? Now that he knows about you, I want his input. I bet he has, like, some really good, objective Straight-Dude intel.” 

Louis does _not_ want Straight-Dude intel on his love life, but he does want Liam to get his shit together asap and claim his spot at 14C so that they don’t have to offer his top bunk to some weird undeserving new kid they don’t know. Louis doesn’t care about who ends up in the bottom bunks, but the idea of someone in Harry’s year snagging a super cool and fancy top bunk in 14C is all sorts of wrong. He launches off the bed and lands awkwardly crouched on the floor before stumbling to the door frame and leaning out of it. “Payno!!!! Come get your spot before we have to have a rumble over it!” Louis screams into the forest. A small bevy of quail erupts out of some nearby brush, which isn’t unexpected--Louis’s been told before that he has the sort of screaming voice that can displace entire families of birds. 

“Oi! Tommo!” he hears in the distance, although he can’t see Liam yet, can’t pick him out of the small group of people he’s in. “Hold on, I’ve got _things_ to tell you,” he shouts back, and that sounds…that sounds positively dreadful, honestly. Louis enjoys Liam’s company very much, but he doesn’t under any circumstances trust him with… _things_. Louis watches with apprehension as Liam charges up the hill carrying his incredibly fancy REI professional hiker-man backpack, the type of gear people wear when they’re hiking cross-country or whatever. Needless to say, Liam works in the survival and archery units. “Hey,” he says once he makes it to 14C, pushing Louis inside and hoisting his backpack onto his bunk territorially. “You want to thank me _now_ , before I tell you the wonderful thing I just did as your friend and wingman?” he asks Louis with a smug, excited grin. 

Louis’s heart sinks, and Zayn cracks up from his bunk, clapping manically. “Oh, boy,” he mumbles. 

“What have you _done?_ ” Louis gasps, hands on either side of his face, knowing that he probably looks like the kid from _Home Alone_ right now, but he doesn’t care because Liam’s done something, something _terrible_ , he knows it. 

“Look _grateful_ , Tommo. I saved your ass, and just because m’not gay doesn’t mean I’m not a decent matchmaker,” he snaps. 

Louis flings himself face down onto his bunk like Belle in _Beauty and the Beast_. “Oh, we have a regular Dolly Levi here. Amazing. Payno, the gay matchmaker. I’m just going to _die_ , you can scrape my remains off this plastic mattress with a stick later and ship them to—”

“Louis, you promised me you’d quit being a self-pitying asshole!” Zayn chides, balling up his jacket and hurling it at Louis with enough force that it kind of stings when it hits him. “Liam, what did you do?” 

“I invited Harry and Niall to room with us here at 14C for the summer!” he bursts out, and Louis can’t do anything but let out a long, strangled death garble and kick the air pathetically while Zayn snickers. 

“S’a great idea, Liam. Louis is sending his thanks from the grave,” Zayn assures Liam, reaching out and patting his shoulder sympathetically. 

“Am not,” Louis mumbles. “Maybe I wanted to share a cabin with him when he was, like, the harmless tadpole version of himself, but not now. Too many nocturnal emissions. M’gonna go shack up with some _other boys_ this summer.” He rolls over onto his back, sighing deeply. 

“I thought you’d _want_ to spend more time with him, especially since during the day he’s gonna be doing art with the kids. You won’t see him much if you’re in different units. I thought I was doing you a _favor_.” 

“You are,” Zayn tells Liam, hopping off his bed and climbing up into Louis’s exasperatedly. Louis is sort of wordlessly whimpering. “Look, Louis, this is good. Like I said, you can do reconnaissance! Get to know him! See that he’s just a normal guy and quit idealizing him in your mind and being fucking ridiculous.” 

“Oh, oh! Exposure therapy!” Liam chimes in, holding his index finger up in a way that indicates he’s about to start talking about one of his classes. “I learned in psychology that, like, a really effective treatment for people with phobias and chronic anxiety is to, like, expose them to the thing they’re scared of or anxious about until their fear response stabilizes, so that they learn the worst-case scenario they’re anticipating never happens. Like, if people are really phobic of rollercoasters, they go stand next to one, then wait in line, until their anxiety goes down. Eventually they ride it, like, over and over again, until they aren’t scared anymore. Totally fascinating stuff, my psychology class was _insane_ , guys.” 

“ _Sounds scientific_ ,” Louis snaps, and Zayn smacks his knee none too gently. 

“No dude, look it up! Exposure therapy. It’s a real thing,” Liam assures him. 

“What he means is that if you spend enough time around Harry and sleep in the same room with him and see him all gross in the morning with, like, boogers in his eyes and drool on his pillow, you’ll stop freaking out every time you see him. And you might still like him, but at least you won’t be an absolute shit about it. And then maybe you can do some of that reconnaissance we talked about.” 

“Oooh, a recon mission, what for?” Liam asks, clapping briskly and rubbing his palms together like he’s on fucking _Survivorman_ about to start a goddamned _fire_ , and really he’s so embarrassing and also ruining Louis’s life, thank you very much. “I love recon.” Of course he does.

“Trying to find out if Harry might be gay or, like, interested,” Zayn offers while Louis makes a high-pitched sound of distress. 

“Oh, definitely,” Liam says, like he’s some _expert_ on gay guys or something. “I’ve always thought so.” 

“Based on _what_?!” Louis yelps, and he’s expecting something really stereotypical from Liam, like, _he looks girly and hangs out with girls and used to be skinny and sings at campfire_ , like those all make a gay man gay, but instead Liam shrugs and says, “Whenever he talks about the type of person he might like or his crushes or whatever, he always uses gender-neutral pronouns. Stood out to me last summer because, well…I don’t know anyone who does that except for you and my friend back home who just came out as a lesbian last fall, so, yeah. I sort of wondered.” 

It’s actually…logical. And not homophobic. Louis’s pretty impressed, and Zayn is nodding, brows arched in that way that means he underestimated Liam and is having to rethink his former biases. “That’s good news, right, Tommo? So just, like, chill out for a minute. Make friends, hang out during orientation. We’ll _all_ be here in the cabin so we can support you, keep an eye out. It’ll be fun.” 

Liam nods eagerly, like he also thinks _it’ll be fun_. Louis’s skeptical, but at least his friends have his back. At least he’s not going to be suffering in silent, gay purgatory all on his own. He inhales shakily, thinking that this summer is already not going _at all_ like he anticipated. “Okay. Fine. What are they all doing now, anyway, picking the activities they want to work and stuff?” 

“Yeah, I invited Harry right before his art training session, and he seemed pretty onboard about it. He asked about Niall then, and he seems cool. He’s gonna be doing archery, so I’ll see him around. I think they’re gonna figure out cabin stuff after their activity training, though, so you have some time for, like, deep-breathing exercises if you want.” 

“Fuck that,” Louis mumbles, struggling out of his shirt and hopping off the bed. If Zayn won’t let him drown his sorrows in tears, he’s gonna do it in lake water. “I’m gonna go swimming. You guys can come, or you can clean the spiders off the window sills…your call.” 

It’s a no-brainer, obviously. They change into trunks and grab their towels, shoving each other a lot, joking and teasing, and at least for a moment, it seems like everyone forgets that Louis’s dying. Except for Louis, of course, who’s internally panicking about how horrible it’s going to be to have to _change in the same room_ as Harry Styles, _hang out in the lake_ with Harry Styles, _see Harry Styles’s_ mermaid hair slicked down his gorgeous, tan back.

As he chases Liam down the hill with a particularly nasty poison mushroom speared on a stick, he pretends that he’s his normal, playful self, a menace among men. But on the inside, he’s fairly certain this is going to be the last time he ever swims in this lake before he goes into cardiac arrest and dies. So he might as well enjoy it. 

—-

Louis doesn’t actually have to see Harry until after his swim, when he’s toweling himself off in 14C, singing the high bit of a three-part harmony with Zayn and Liam, the latter finally warming up to Destiny’s Child after years of sheer exposure. Exposure therapy, perhaps, because he’s pretty sure Liam had a Destiny’s Child phobia at first. He’s innocently belting out his Beyonce solo into an imaginary microphone, still dripping lake water on the floor, when Niall bursts in through the door all ruddy-cheeked and doubled over under the weight of his luggage. He claps madly, hopping from one foot to the other, and Louis barely has enough time to register that this kid has _two full duffle bags and a fucking guitar case on him_ when he sees Harry’s face poke over Niall’s shoulder, grinning and radiant and shiny, like a cornfield in the sunshine or something equally golden and poetic. Louis’s solo dies in his throat, and he’s reduced to a moment of wild hacking before recovering, righting himself, and wheezing, “Welcome to cabin 14C, where anyone who doesn’t love Beyonce for the queen that she is will wake up with a very badly drawn penis on his face.”

“I _love_ Beyonce,” Niall announces enthusiastically, wheeling around the room and shaking everyone’s hand with such force that Louis’s momentarily worried his arm might be wrenched from its socket. “Love her. Great body. _Amazing_ voice. Huge fan. Also, hi, dunno why I’m shaking everyone’s hand when I know you all, and we’re, like, at hug status now, right?” Niall then gives everyone exceptionally heartfelt hugs, even though they’re all still wet and he hasn’t set down his enormous collection of bags. 

Harry, who has been lurking a ways behind everyone, leaning casually in the door frame, waves once Zayn ushers him in, cheeks pink from the heat, the flush of it going all the way down the column of his throat. “Hello!” he says brightly, eyes darting around the room, anywhere but on Louis, thankfully, who’s still trying to grapple with the fact that he’s wet and shirtless and _exposed_ , and Harry’s _right here_ , in his goddamned cabin like some type of indie-Abercrombie dropout daymare. 

“Harry,” he says sharply, because at this point, bravado is his only defense. “Please tell me you’re also a huge Beyonce fan.” 

Harry nods. “Of course,” he says very seriously. “If I get drunk enough, you’ll see a mean karaoke version of ‘Halo.’” 

“Is that a promise?” Zayn chirps from the bed, pointing to Niall’s giant guitar case. “And what is _that_? Are we gonna have post-campfire campfire songs?” 

“Zayn loves to sing and is actually pretty good at it, but he _hates_ performing and turns into a petulant child every campfire, as I’m sure you’ve noticed,” Louis explains, hanging a towel up from the top bunk so that it hangs low enough to conceal the bottom bed, giving him a place to sneak in and change out of his trunks in _peace_. He doesn’t mind being naked in front of Zayn and Liam (or even in front of _Niall_ , who’s currently going on and on at a cluelessly loud volume about all the different songs he can provide accompaniment for on a guitar), but he cannot and will not take off any more of his clothing in front of Harry Styles. The mere idea of what it would feel like to have Harry’s pretty eyes locked on his own naked body makes his dick twitch, even in his _wet swim trunks_ , and this is entirely unacceptable, so. He shimmies out of his wet shorts and pulls on a pair of sweats with no boxers before shouldering his way back out. 

He claps his hands together, making Harry jump a little, and _good_. He’s younger and doesn’t know shit about how to be a senior counselor yet, and it’s, like, _normal and healthy_ for him to be a tiny bit…scared of Louis. To have respect for him, or something. Louis tries to embody someone younger kids might have respect for, putting his hands on his hips and asking, “So, Neil, why did you bring, like, all of your earthly belongings to camp?” 

“My name is _Niall_ ,” he corrects Louis, somehow missing the fact that it was a joke before he grins mischievously and sinks to the floor, where he now sits with his legs crossed, dragging one of his duffle bags up into his lap. “The other one is clothes and toothpaste and stuff. But this one…I guess I don’t know how you guys are about this yet, so don’t freak out…,” he says as he unzips the bag. Louis holds his breath a little as Niall reveals a virtual _goldmine_ of contraband. Junk food in heaps, Funyuns and Cheetos and Chex Mix in individual bags, Starburst and M &Ms, canisters of Pringles, packs of Big League Chew. Louis’s mouth hangs open, and it only gets wider as Niall rummages through the food to reveal an entire twelve pack of beer, a bottle of Crown Royal, some wine coolers, and a fucking _tupperware full of weed_. “Oh. My. _God,_ ” Louis gasps, the first person who manages to speak properly. “I am _so glad you ended up in our cabin!_ ” he shrieks before collapsing onto his knees in front of the treasure chest, rifling through the chips and candy lovingly. “This is going to make the summer _so much better._ ” 

“Glad for our sake but also for yours,” Liam agrees, gazing down at the stash with an expression that’s both wary and impressed. “Like, aside from this being awesome,, you’re also incredibly fucking lucky you didn’t open this in front of the wrong person. Some people really like to suck up to the chief counselors, and they would have ratted you out in a second.” 

Niall unwraps a Snickers and takes a messy bite before offering it to Liam. “I’m an excellent judge of character,” he says through a mouthful of peanuts and chocolate. “I trust Harry, and he trusted you.” 

Louis, who had been carefully popping the top of the tupperware to get a whiff of the weed (pretty decent, honestly), flicks his gaze over to Niall, “Seriously, _thank you,_ I could fucking kiss you for this. I _love_ horses and kids and being a counselor, but I _hate_ arbitrary rules, not to mention the mess hall is _deplorable_. I will literally pay you back once the summer is over if you let me smoke some of this,” he pleads, shaking the tupperware in Niall’s face. 

Niall gestures loosely in the air. “No need, I brought stuff to share. No fun getting stoned or eating candy alone…figured after orientation is over and before camp starts, we can have a sort of party, break the cabin in. Play songs and eat shit until we’re sick, and maybe I can hear Zayn’s supposedly amazing singing voice,” he says, waggling his eyebrows at Zayn. 

Zayn blows a kiss. “Yeah, we’ll see. I might have to be actually drunk.” 

“He’s got you covered!” Louis grins, cheerfully holding up the Crown Royal. Harry shuffles over but sort of freezes, eyes locked on the sloshing amber liquid in the bottle, and Louis’s peripherally aware that Harry is holding out his stupid-big hands, cupped out in front of himself. 

“Niall, can I have a strawberry Starburst?” Harry asks, very politely. Louis moves on autopilot, shoving the bottle back where it was before grabbing the bag of Starburst, which crinkles under his fingers as he rips it open, heart in his fucking throat, like offering Niall’s candy to Harry Styles is something that should make him fucking _nervous_. He’s a disgrace. 

“You don’t have to have just a strawberry one, take a whole handful,” Niall says, watching as Louis carefully, carefully pours a few Starburst into Harry’s outstretched hands. He notices his bracelets, including a plastic beaded one like dumb raver kids wear but cuter because it was clearly made for him by a child, the colors ugly and mismatched and in no particular order. There’s also a wristband from a concert and a worn leather strap with the word _peace_ stamped into it. Harry’s so weird, and his wrists are so _nice_. 

“But I only want strawberry,” Harry explains, trying to drop the rest back into the bag, which Louis has conveniently pulled toward his chest, out of Harry’s reach. 

“Hey,” Louis says, shoving those stupidly huge hands full of apparently not good enough Starburst back at Harry. “No take-backsies.” 

“Okay,” Harry agrees, soft and low and sort of slurred. “I’ll eat the red and yellow ones, but I hate orange-flavored things, so you’ll have to take those,” he tells Louis, looking up at him through his eyelashes, the green of his irises chased out into a thin, delicate ring by the blast of his pupil. Louis can see his own reflection in that shiny black, and he almost asks Harry, _why are your pupils so fucking dilated, are you trying to kill me?_ but he can’t speak, his voice effectively murdered by the prospect of sharing a handful of Starburst with him, so he’s thankfully mute for the time being.

They sit side by side on the edge of one of the bottom bunks, Harry with his hands full of Starburst, and Louis carefully fishing through to find all the orange ones. “Are you telling me you don’t like Orange Crush? Orange Fanta? Any orange soda of any kind at all? Are you an alien?” he asks Harry conversationally, unwrapping one of the orange Starburst and popping it into his mouth to chew noisily. _Does this mean you won’t kiss me if I eat enough of these?_ is something he would have said last summer, back when he was still capable of _teasing_ Harry, flirting with him, could stand making him blush. Not anymore. He can hardly hold it together as it is, watching Harry carefully, thoughtfully smacking his lips around a strawberry Starburst. It’s horrible, the candy so many shades lighter than Harry’s actual mouth, which is one of the most distracting and beautiful things on the planet. Louis forces himself not to look at it. 

“I actually don’t like any soda except Diet Coke?” Harry explains, head cocked. “Here, have a cherry one. They’re the second worst.” 

Louis takes the cherry Starburst, unwraps it, and methodically sticks it into the half-chewed mess of the orange one. Cherry-orange, like those popsicles he has horrible memories of Harry eating two summers ago, back when he first realized Harry had a really pretty mouth, a really pretty everything else. It seems so _long_ ago, when he graduated high school and hadn’t yet kissed a boy, when he was still figuring out what it meant to be gay, when Harry was sixteen and astoundingly clumsy and wore horrible purple supras like it was a normal thing to do. He had been so fucking cute, cheeky and too smart for his own good, always getting cuddled by the older girls, who’d fight over who got to play with his hair during campfire, winding the curls around their fingers and cooing like he was a zoo animal. And Louis…Louis probably wasn’t much better or less obvious or weird, if he thinks about it. 

“You’ve _got_ to be joking,” he says to Harry, nudging him in the ribs with his elbow. “No one _only_ likes Diet Coke. No one likes Diet Coke at all…you’re not helping the whole ‘alien’ case, just fyi,” he says, shoving another three Starburst into his mouth because he just _touched_ Harry, and he doesn’t have a drink to throw back instead. 

“I do! I love it. I love the taste of aspartame…like, the aftertaste,” Harry insists, eyes so wide, and Louis would be certain he was lying to fuck with him if he thought Harry was capable of faking sincerity, but he’s pretty sure he’s not. 

“You’re so lucky you love Beyonce because that’s grounds for cabin 14C eviction,” Louis teases, emptying his fist of sticky, crumpled Starburst wrappers onto Harry’s lap. 

Harry yelps, eyes wide. “Don’t evict me! Niall brought snacks!” he begs, frantically gathering the wrappers and dumping them in the wicker wastepaper basket by the door. “And I clean,” he adds somewhat _coyly_ , and if Louis had something snarky to say in response, it immediately evaporates from his mind. 

Luckily, Zayn saves him. “Louis, we gotta report to the barn in a half-hour to meet the new staff…I guess tomorrow we’re gonna go over logistics and lesson plans, but I wanna say hi to all the horses first, so m’gonna head down early. Sound good?” 

“Sounds great,” Louis says, heart genuinely clenching a little at the idea of getting to see all his favorite school horses. Sierra Trails Adventure Camp has a hodge-podge assortment of old, dirty nags, but it hasn’t stopped Louis from falling in love with too many of them. It’s in his nature, as a horse person, to love the most ornery and difficult horses solely because they’re ornery and difficult. He vaults up, making the grave mistake of asking Niall, “Have you picked a bed? We snagged the top bunks, but all the bottom ones are free. I suggest you hide your big bag of contraband under whichever one you choose, though.” 

“I want to sleep under you!” Harry calls from where he’s still picking wrappers carefully off the floor and tossing them into the trash. “Which bunk is yours?” 

Louis turns in slow motion, eyes fixed on Harry, blood pounding deafeningly in his ears. Everyone save for Niall and Harry has gone oddly, obviously quiet, two pairs of guilty brown eyes fixed on him like it’s somehow their fault Harry is inadvertently ruining his life. And it _is_ , sort of, since it _is_ their fault that Harry’s sleeping in this room in the first place. 

“Louis, which bunk is yours?” Harry repeats because he hasn’t even _realized_ that he’s said something horrible, has no fucking idea that Louis’s imagining what it might feel like to be perched atop his toned abs, hands splayed on his chest, giving him his full weight to restrict his breathing a little, to see him grow red and flushed. _Fuck_. Louis’s mouth is sort of hanging open as he drags a hand down the side of his face, the absolute picture of shock, and he’s very, very lucky that Zayn is his friend because he’s the first to recover. 

“Ah, this is mine, and that one’s Payno’s, so Louis is…here. This one,” he says, patting the side of the bunk clinically and only managing to look 23 percent skeevy, the bulk of which is in his waggling eyebrows, but luckily, Harry doesn’t seem to be looking at him at all, instead depositing his (floral old-lady-print suitcase he probably borrowed from his grandma, precious) onto the bunk beneath Louis’s. 

“Is that cool, Louis? D’you mind?” 

“Nah, of course not, s’fine,” Louis assures him, amazed his voice doesn’t come out as a strangled death gasp. “I do snore, though. And sleepwalk. It might be risky.” 

Harry shrugs, sitting down on the squeaky mattress that bows under his weight, trying to fit his whole enormous self into the narrow little space. “That’s fine! I can sleep through anything.” 

“It’s settled then!” Liam says brightly, smiling widely and too cheerfully. “Harry’s under Louis!” 

Louis positively shoots him _daggers_ from where he’s standing. 

“C’mon, Lou, put on a shirt, and let’s go feed carrots to Bianca and Bernard,” Zayn says, tossing Louis’s shirt to him, gaze firm, a million unspoken warnings residing within it. 

“See you guys later,” Louis sighs, very relieved to be tugged away by his sleeve, mouth stinging with too much sugar, too much orange for Harry to kiss. He thinks about Harry’s tongue probably being stained red from the strawberry, and he whimpers as Zayn pulls him along. “M’gonna kill you and Payno,” he hisses once they’re out of earshot. 

“Nah, you’re gonna get laid this summer,” Zayn tells him, slinging his arm around Louis’s shoulder and letting out a conspiratorial giggle. “I can tell.” 

Louis rolls his eyes, knowing he’s wrong but letting him have the self-congratulatory best-bud wingman moment anyway. Louis’s a good friend like that. 

—-

 

Louis feels significantly calmer once he’s in the barn, so calm, in fact, that he thinks he might be able to forget the whole Harry thing entirely and just _stop liking him_. He can probably give up on love and dating and everything that comes with it because he probably doesn’t _need_ all that, not when he has horses. Louis is currently sort of draped over the back of Oliver, his favorite bay gelding, eyes closed in serene bliss as his barrel chest expands with each deep horse breath, and Louis moves accordingly. He smells like dust and salt and leather but mostly like _horse_ , an indescribably wonderful smell, and Louis can die here, thank you very much. He must be smiling weirdly because Zayn pats his head and asks, “Are you thinking about Harry?” 

Offended, Louis’s eyes snap open. “Harry who?” he murmurs, patting Oliver’s neck so a billow of dust rises from him, glinting in the sunlight. “I’m over Harry.” 

“You’re…compartmentalizing,” Zayn offers carefully, head cocked. Oliver shifts under Louis’s weight, suddenly more interested in Zayn now that he notices he has some baby carrots in his pockets. 

“You made my pillow quit loving me,” Louis pouts, choosing to ignore Zayn’s possibly accurate point about compartmentalization. It’s just that everything--last semester’s gross, unfulfilling hookups, cabin 14C and all its residents, Harry and his strawberry spit--seems far away when there are horses around. Horses, who stamp their hooves and flick their tails and whinny and nicker and snuffle around in Louis’s hair if he lets them, but who never _talk_. Louis has yet to achieve true, silent _stillness_ anywhere else in his life other than atop a horse or even just here, right beside one, feeling the giant, slow heartbeat out with his palm. It’s like horses are the only things in the world that can successfully calm the perpetual noise in Louis’s brain, and as absurd as it sounds, he feels legitimately _zen_ when he’s around them, which is saying a lot considering that Louis consists of two parts mania, one part drama, and one part show tunes on most days.

It’s a nice change, to just sort of relax into the hors- silence for a minute. Where there’s no Harry Styles. “You told me to manifest chill, by the way, remember? Well, I’m manifesting it. I am so chill. In fact, I’m so chill I’m just gonna sleep in the barn and never think about Harry and his _peace_ bracelet ever again.” 

Zayn sighs, long and exhausted, which makes Louis feel sort of bad because it’s only been _one_ day of camp, and it usually takes longer for Zayn to sigh at him like that. “You know what his _bracelet_ says, s’proof you clearly still care, so quit being weird. I think you actually have a chance, you know. He looks at you with big, moony eyes. I checked.” 

Louis rolls his own eyes, which are neither big nor moony. “He looks at everything like that. He’s just in a constant state of...bewildered wonder or something, like he’s perpetually hurtling in a spaceship through…space, or whatever, but no one can see it but him? It’s weird. He’s weird. He might be an alien,” Louis grumbles, thumbing a chunk of Oliver’s dark, dusty mane to the side and braiding it deftly. 

“God, you're so in love with him. I should write down all the shit you say and sell it. S’like…poetry,” Zayn says as he tangles his hand in Oliver’s forelock before stroking down his blaze to his muzzle, to where the skin is soft and warm. “Bad poetry,” Zayn adds, and Oliver huffs contentedly because he’s the kind of horse who lives to be brushed and coddled. Perfect for summer camp. 

“Ugh, I know,” Louis groans. “My point is that I don’t think I have as much of a chance as _you_ think I do. The way he _looks at me_ is irrelevant.” 

“He wanted to sleep under you!” Zayn leers, and that’s _cruel_ , honestly, Louis would slap him a little if they didn’t run the risk of spooking the horses. “That’s gotta count for something.” 

“You’re terrible. Also, he’s _afraid of horses_ , so there’s no possible way it could work out _anyway_ ,” Louis says, winding more of Oliver’s mane idly around his fingers. “Doomed before we even start.” 

Zayn sighs at him, that long-suffering, exasperated sigh, and again, Louis feels guilty about it. “Hey, let’s go find your girl,” he says, patting Oliver’s haunches. “See ya, buddy, hope you’re ready to have a million kids thumping around on your poor old back in a few days,” he whispers, kissing Oliver between the eyes before wiping the thin layer of dust and horse hair from his lips. Gross, but worth it. 

They pick their way around the paddock, which is treacherous in that the ground is pockmarked unevenly, there are piles of manure everywhere, and neither Zayn nor Louis have changed from their Vans and Chucks into real riding boots. “We’ll be getting _plenty_ of that this week, so I’m not gonna put my feet into those uncomfortable things for even one more day than I have to,” Louis had announced upon arrival, but now he’s sort of regretting it. They hop over a small river of algae-green overflow from a watering trough, but Louis still manages to get mud on his shin, somehow. 

Zayn’s too busy fawning all over his favorite mare, Moxie, to sympathize. Moxie is a standoffish paint who hates just about everyone on the planet save for Zayn Malik. If Louis does so much as _look_ at her, she pins her ears; it’s miraculous. “Hi, darling diva, did you miss me?” Louis asks, one hand planted on his waist as he waves at her with the other, knowing he should keep a safe distance because Moxie is an awful creature, and he’d prefer to keep all his appendages intact. 

“She says no,” Zayn offers, wrapping his arms around her neck and squeezing like he’s giving an honest-to-god _hug_. Few horses really appreciate hugs, and Moxie would be at the bottom if Louis ever made a list of horses who might tolerate them, but Zayn is the main character in a fairytale or something because she’s just _standing_ there, not trying to kill him at all. 

“Amazing,” Louis says, wondering how Zayn can get the most hateful mare in the world to love him when Louis can’t get a single cute, eligible, gay college dude. It’s highly unfair. 

They meander around the paddock a bit more, mostly so Louis can lavish kisses on his other favorites, Bianca and Bernard, two little Shetland ponies that were rescued together his first year. Louis loves them even though they’re too small for anyone save for the littlest kids to to ride; they’re just sweet and docile and hilarious looking, sort of the perfect camp mascots. Louis likes to dress them up in absurd outfits for the end-of-camp party, and it’s always an absolute hit with the kids. “Look at you two, all chubby, as you should be,” he says, holding palmfuls of baby carrots to both of them. Bianca crunches hers up all in one bite, while Bernard uses his lips to guide each one into his mouth individually. It’s very cute. Louis finds himself wishing Harry were here, so he could show him that horses, or at least the smaller, fluffier kind, aren’t _that_ full of secrets and mystery. 

Louis sighs, picking some crusted mud and manure out of Bianca’s coat, frowning. He doesn’t _want_ to be obsessively thinking about Harry, he doesn’t _want_ to be imagining Harry with him every where he goes, a lens through which to view all of camp, all of _everything_. It’s embarrassing and impractical, and he always _does this_ , builds fantasy lives in his head, lives where he and Harry are more than just camp buddies who see each other two months out of the year. “Zayn,” Louis whines, flopping across Bernard’s back and hiding his face in the shock of main that grows right above his withers. “I’m not over Harry, like, not at all.” 

“Tell me something I didn’t tell you first,” Zayn snaps. 

Louis groans into his favorite ponies. 

—-

The next few days are quick and messy, too fast and too slow all at once, and they leave Louis positively _exhausted_. He doesn’t even see Harry around much, save for in the morning, when everyone drags themselves out of bed to Niall’s Justin Bieber alarm, groggy and half-dead because nobody has gotten used to 5 a.m., and at night, when everyone files in after dinner and collapses into their bunks, too worn out to exchange more than half-hearted groans.. Louis is spending most of his time with the other horsemanship counselors, going over lesson plans and new safety protocols, setting up the arena so that it’s safe, and clearing trails so they aren’t overgrown and to make sure that no particularly giant rocks are in the way for anyone to trip over. He assumes Harry is doing the same thing with the arts and crafts team, although he can’t imagine they have a fraction as much to worry about….what are they doing while the riding instructors are cleaning all the bits and repairing the saddle trees in the tack room? Sharpening colored pencils? Making sure they have enough decorative _stickers_ or something? Louis is baffled, really, more than he is disdainful.

He kind of misses Harry, but it’s also a relief to be out of his orbit. It gives him time to think, to rationalize, to build up some calluses on his hands and around his heart before they start having to work together in earnest. The only truly distracting moments of orientation are in the middle of the night, when Louis wakes up suddenly and freezes in his bunk, staring at the vacant darkness around him with a pounding heart, trying to remember where he is, why it smells like pine and boy-sweat and dirty socks and mildew. 

Then he’ll remember he’s in 14C at Sierra Trails, and he’ll have a few seconds of resigned clarity before he remembers _Harry Styles_ , the suddenly and insufferably sexy version, is _snoring gently in the bunk beneath him_. It makes him seize up, skin crawling, too hot in the slippery nylon of his sleeping bag. He always takes awhile to fall back asleep, and he spends too much time lying awake with his eyes shut tightly and resolutely, like that will keep him from drowsily fantasizing about sliding out of his bunk and into Harry’s, settling himself against the curve of his broad back, burning up in his heat, touching his body with lazy, hungry hands. _God_. Louis’s sleep has been _shit_ in this shitty bunk, if he’s honest. Or at least, his sleep has been shit since Harry decided to wiggle his way _under_ it. 

So far, Louis has been too delirious with exhaustion when he falls asleep to think much about the implications of Harry being this close, so it’s only something that hits him in the middle of the night, when he’s defenseless, in his dreams. He hasn’t had to actually _see_ Harry get into the bed underneath him, at least, because Harry likes to _wash his hair_ every night, and by the time he takes the trip all the way out to the showers and back, Louis has usually crashed. It saves him the stress of having to witness a shower-damp Harry with his glorious hair combed back and his long-ass legs in fucking tiny-ass briefs (this is what he sleeps in, Louis knows _that much_ , because he’s seen and nearly fallen apart over it in the wee hours of the a.m., when he’s already struggling with morning wood and a caffeine headache, _nothing is fair_ ).

Niall is the one who decides to ruin everything by suggesting they finally have their Before Camp Boy’s Bash as he’s calling it. He assaults Louis in the mess hall during lunch, coming up to him like a tornado and poking him right in the chest, eyes locked on him firmly. “Tonight. After dinner. Party at 14C. Lots of Beyonce and other…things,” he leers, waggling his eyebrows, and if Louis didn’t already know about the duffle bag of contraband, he might think Niall was coming onto him or something. “Be there, Tommo. And tell Zayn. Harry and I have presents for you guys since you so generously offered your cool-kids cabin to us lowly ex-JCs. So, tonight. After dinner. Beyonce.” 

He skips away (like, actually skips...Niall is like that), and Louis has no _choice_ but to spend the rest of lunch picking anxiously at his taco salad and asking Zayn two hundred different times what kind of _presents_ Niall could be referring to. 

Louis actually ends up spending the rest of his _entire day_ stressing about this goddamned Before Camp Boy’s Bash in 14C. Last year, he would have been _so into it_ , already preparing his karaoke routines and stealing ice and napkins from the mess hall in anticipation, but of course that was before Harry was hard to be around, before Louis could hardly look at him without feeling hot-cheeked and dizzy. He doesn’t know if he’s _ever_ had a crush like this, and he wonders if that means this isn’t a crush at all, but whatever comes _after_ a crush, a crush’s more sinister and evil cousin. He doesn’t want to think too much about what that might be. 

Dinner comes and goes, and before he knows it, he and Zayn are trudging back to the barn to grab their tennis shoes and jackets, then back up to 14C for their Boy’s Bash. Louis wishes he was already drunk, instead of about to get drunk, so that he could drunkenly deal with Harry Styles. He also wishes he had time for a shower, but the lines looked disappointingly long when he passed the locker room earlier, so he figures he’ll have to either sneak one in late when he sobers up or wait until the morning. When he bursts through the door of the cabin, he’s flushed and sweat-sticky, and he already has two really annoying mosquito bites by his left elbow. He’s also covered in a layer of horse hair and barn dirt, all of which makes it extra horrible when Harry sees him and immediately launches across the room to _hug him_. 

The air whooshes out of Louis’s lungs as Harry squeezes him, rocks him back and forth, and ignores the fact that he probably smells like he just came from a _barn_ , because, well, _he did_. “You’re here!” Harry yells in his ear, breath hot and already boozy, and Louis kind of swoons, his own treacherous hands moving to alight themselves on Harry’s hips. It’s the only place there’s any softness at all left on him, his rounded cheeks and padded tummy having firmed up and lengthened out, leaving him hard and solid everywhere but here, where Louis is touching him. It’s a lot. It’s more than a crush. Harry lets him go but slides his hands down his shoulders, locking them onto Louis’s forearms and gazing down at him with big, green, bloodshot but very sincere eyes. “Liam and Niall and I might have already started without you guys,” he says, head cocked, curls backlit and everywhere, looking like a goddamned angel, and this is _not_ how Louis imagined his first time getting drunk with Harry Styles might look like. “We only shared a beer and a bowl, though, so there’s, like, plenty more. What do you want to start with?” He releases Louis’s arms and claps his hands together, lightly bouncing on the balls of his feet, so fucking eager. 

“Jesus, let me, like, sit down first,” Louis says, toeing off his shoes and absently rubbing at the spot where Harry was just touching him, like his skin is burning. 

“ _Seriously_ , Harry, give the man some space! You don’t have to _wait_ on him,” Niall says, before burping spectacularly. He’s sitting on the floor with a guitar in his lap, picking at chords absentmindedly. 

“Heeeey,” Harry says, crossing his arms over his chest. Louis notices he’s wearing a totally awful Rolling Stones shirt with, like, a ten-inch rip across the front, and he can see _all_ of Harry’s abs through it, which is a travesty. “Don’t make fun of me. I like to make sure everyone’s comfortable. And I like to keep house, Niall, m’gonna be, like, the cabin 14C mom, just watch me. I’ll clean it up and spray air freshener when it gets too gross.” 

“You don’t have to, Harry, we don’t expect you to be a house boy just because you’re younger,” Liam says, not without shooting a suggestive glance at Louis like he just said something suggestive. Or maybe he did. Louis doesn’t know for sure--Liam’s innuendo is sometimes a little too obtuse for him to get right away.

“No, I _want_ to,” Harry says earnestly, before taking a swig of beer. Louis _stares_ , thankful at least that it’s in a can and not in a bottle; he really doesn’t need to add fuel to any of his midnight fantasies by knowing what Harry’s perfect pink mouth looks like wrapped around the glass neck of a Corona. “I _like_ to clean. I like to do laundry. It’s calming,” Harry explains defensively, holding out his wide, trash-can lid hands in the air. “There’s nothing wrong with that.” 

“There certainly isn’t...if you’re an alien,” Louis chimes in bravely, taking a seat between Zayn and Liam, which seems like a safe place to be. “Okay, I’m ready for a shot. Care to pour me one, Harold, since you _like_ to clean and do laundry?” 

Zayn nudges Louis in the ribs and shoots him a small, reassuring smile, which is so _nice_ in comparison to the exhausted sighs. Harry grins at him, dimples popping, sweat on his brow, so fucking lovely as he sloshes a decent amount of Crown Royal into a paper cup that Niall apparently nicked from the mess hall. “Here you go,” he says cheekily, and their fingers brush as Louis takes it. His breath catches, but he doesn’t spill anything, which is amazing. He throws the shot back, and as it burns down his throat, he thinks, _I can do this_. 

—-

They end up talking about their _lesson plans_ after some hearty singalongs, which isn’t exactly what Louis expected for a Before Camp Boy’s Bash, but whatever. He’s not complaining about anything, really; he’s pleasantly buzzed and thoroughly stoned, and he can’t remember at all why he isn’t supposed to be looking at Harry too much because it’s literally all he can do right now, and it’s _so fun_. It’s the easiest thing in the _world_ to look at Harry--Harry and his explosive, snorting laugh, Harry and his hair he’s constantly touching, pushing out of his face only to have it fall back. _I could do that for you_ , Louis thinks idly, watching the tumble of chocolate curls escape from behind Harry’s ear. _I could hold your hair back for you. I could do anything, I would be the best boyfriend you ever had_ , he thinks. 

“Our theme this year is “ _Hero’s Journey_ ” for the horsemanship unit. Like, knights and stuff, that type of hero. Isn’t that the dumbest, whitest thing you ever heard?” Zayn explains, coughing around his mouthful of smoke. “I guess we’re gonna do, like….jousting with pool noodles. It’s so stupid.” 

“It’s _cute_ ,” Louis argues, offended because _he was the one who came up with the Hero’s Journey_ theme, and he thought it was _clever_. “I’m gonna make cardboard chainmail, armor stuff for Bernard and Bianca. It’ll be _adorable_ ,” he assures everyone, throwing an empty Fritos bag at Zayn’s too-pretty face. 

“I think it sounds _great_ ,” Harry reassures him, reaching across the circle to lay his giant hand on Louis’s not-so-giant ankle. Louis beams at him, _this is why_ he has a crush on Harry--Harry, who’s so nice and encouraging and positive about everything, who doesn’t give him a hard time about things being dorky or girly or little-kiddish, like Zayn sometimes does--Zayn, who wears _leather jackets in the woods_. Ugh. “I love the idea of, like…courtly love, so I’ve always thought knights were really cool.” 

Niall makes a pained sound, “There are _so many sex jokes to be made_ ,” he complains, holding a fist up as if cursing the heavens. “But they’re _all_ inappropriate because we’re talking about _a kids’ camp_. It’s so annoying.” 

“I have no idea what you're talking about, Neil,” Louis says, wrinkling his nose at Niall in disgust, and he’s not sure why, but it makes Harry crack up, doubling over and positively _cackling_ , slapping his knee like a dad at a barbecue, and Louis _loves_ making him laugh, feels lit up inside every time it happens. He sips his beer, using the can to hide his complacent smile. 

“So, Harry, what's the arts and crafts unit have in store for us this summer? I think you’re our only arts representative,” Liam says conversationally. He’s the only sober one in the room because he apparently has some kind of kidney problem that keeps him from drinking. Louis suspects he’s _perfectly_ fine, actually, and just uses his kidney thing as an excuse to deliberately stay sober and wrangle the rest of them because he’s micromanaging and anxious and the only person Louis has ever met who freaks out when he breaks rules. 

“Awww, Lima is facilitating conversations,” Zayn teases, but Louis really wants to know what Harry’s gonna say, so he swats at Zayn, frowning. 

“Stop, I wanna hear all the mysteries of the arts and crafts unit. Like, I truly have no idea what you guys _do all day_. Harry, you have the floor, educate us,” he urges, not worrying about the way his eyes are sweeping down Harry's body, from the span of his shoulders to the tight cut of his obliques, which he can _see_ twitching as Harry moves because his shirt is basically a fucking bikini. 

“Okay, so _originally_ , in, like, May, when I was starting to brainstorm themes and ideas,” Harry starts, and Louis chokes on his mouthful of beer, just as Niall’s laugh turns into a howl. 

“ _May_?” Liam asks, sounding concerned. “You’ve been planning for this job since _May?_ Even _I_ wasn’t so prepared as a JC…I think I read the rule book, maybe.” 

“Shut _up_ , Liam, you got an archery bow when you were _still_ a JC, and you named it _Lance_. No one is more boy scout and lame than you, it’s fine, you still have the unchallenged title,” Louis reminds him, kicking lazily across the circle aiming for Liam’s shin but getting his foot instead. “Go on, Harry. In _May_ , when you were overachieving—”

“I was really excited! I’m not ashamed!” Harry exclaims, holding his arms up. Harry, who likes to do laundry, who never affects cool but just _is_ cool, in his ripped Stones shirt and tattered skinnies and socks with little bananas on them. Louis wants to fucking marry him. He can’t stop thinking about it, how he would teach him to love horses so they could have a romantic horseback wedding and everything. Louis’s drunk, though, so he can’t even stop himself. “Anyway, I originally wanted to do, like, a more multicultural theme. Look at art from, like, other cultures and maybe Native American stuff since this used to be tribal land,” Harry explains before swigging his beer. “But _then_ , I googled around and realized it would be sort of disrespectful to have a whole camp full of white kids making, like…rain sticks and totems out of toilet paper rolls. This stuff is sacred, y’know? So, anyway, when I figured that out, I thought I’d focus more on, like, the nature, in the area. Do like a naturey theme.” 

Zayn nods appreciatively, reaching out and patting Harry’s knee gently. “Nice that you’ve thought about stuff. Most people just don’t give a fuck, s’cool, Harry.” 

“I certainly didn’t think of any of that,” Niall admits, popping open a canister of ranch-flavored Pringles. “I’m glad archery is just archery, and you don’t have to worry about offending people. Just hit a target. Easy. Simple.” 

Louis is just sort of staring, amazed by the way that Harry’s mouth moves around words, how it takes him so fucking long to form sentences and how he half-shapes them with his hands in the air, and it’s fucking profound and beautiful. He could be talking about shower curtains or changing diapers right now, and Louis would still be rapt, but instead he’s talking about nature and other people’s cultures and how he cares about that type of stuff, and it’s so…so _lovely_ , really, and earnest, and it makes it even more compelling to watch, and Louis should _stop this_ , he could catch himself, but he can’t remember why that’s so important, when Harry is still talking. 

Harry grins. “I just want the kids to have fun and learn but also not, like…in a weird or fucked up sort of way. So I wrote up a lesson plan for each week that focuses on, like, a different part of the ecosystem, covering shit, like, biodiversity and different wildlife. I’d _love_ to collaborate with the survival counselors, actually, I think we could maybe go on a hike together and take print castings…or rubbings of leaves…collect stones…,” Harry trails off, and Louis is disappointed because he wants him to go on forever, wants to hear Harry Styles say words like _biodiversity_ until he _dies_. 

“That sounds excellent, actually, I’ll talk to the chief counselor and see what she says,” Liam agrees vigorously, and Louis does _not_ want to hear Liam say words like _excellent_ , forever or at all. He makes a face, flopping down into Zayn’s lap because he’s suddenly _frustrated_ , suddenly so annoyed to exist in a universe where there isn’t just him and Harry, but him and Harry and _billions of other people_ , and he has to _share_ Harry with them. 

Being in Zayn’s lap puts him approximately eye level with the problematic rip in Harry’s shirt, and he’s too drunk to be worried about touching his belly through it, so in a brilliant feat of self-preservation, Louis crawls on all fours over to his duffle bag, where he rummages around for one of his hoodies. When he finds it, he very carefully removes two safety pins from the ten or so holding a faded Brand New patch on it and crawls back over to the circle. 

“Harry, c’mere,” he mumbles, settling his head against Zayn’s thigh and reaching for Harry with what he hopes are very clinical and controlled grabby hands. “Lemme see your shirt, m’gonna heal it.” 

“What, my what?” Harry asks, looking alarmed, flinching when Louis touches him, fingers skating over his knee on the way to his shirt. The touch was not his intention, but it feels so good, and he wants _more_ , which is why he needs to mend this rip, to keep himself from doing something dumb. . Harry’s skin is contraband, like the weed, like Starburst. “Oh, it’s just a tear, s’been there for ages, s’okay,” Harry slurs nonsensically once he realizes what Louis is doing, holding the rip open so that Louis can see all the way up to his brown, puffy nipples, and _fuck_ , now Louis is covering his crotch with his knees, even though he’s pretty sure he’s too stoned to get _noticeably_ hard. 

Louis painstakingly pins the rip as shut as clinically as he can, and Harry falls very quiet, very still as he watches him. Louis’s hands are shaking, but Harry doesn’t say anything if he notices, only wincing on Louis’s behalf when Louis stabs himself in the cuticle three hundred times because drunkenly fastening safety pins by cabin light when he’s close enough to the guy he’s obsessed with and can _smell the kind of detergent his mom uses_ is really fucking _difficult_. 

When he finally gets it, he cheers for himself, and Harry rubs his thumb over the glinting safety pins, slow and careful, like everything else he does. “Thanks, Louis, m’gonna treasure them,” he says, and Louis gets up because he needs another fucking drink. As he throws it back, he realizes his hands are _still_ shaking.


	3. Chapter 3

Louis wakes up the next morning with a massive fucking headache. Niall’s obnoxious alarm is ringing in his ears, Justin’s voice needling into him like an icepick, forcing him to roll over to hide his face in his pillow, but the motion turns his stomach, and then he’s fighting a powerful wave of nausea. Louis chokes bile back, thinking with a hazy sort of dismay that he hasn’t felt this hungover since that fateful Easter frat party, so he must have drank…a lot. Too much. He groans, wondering if he can move without puking over the side of his bunk. 

Then he remembers that anything going over the side of his bunk will fall right on the floor beside _Harry’s_ bunk. Puke included. And he doesn’t want that, so he just lies there, paralyzed in bed, hoping the debilitating queasiness will just….go away. 

“I feel _terrible_ ,” Niall grumbles, kicking off his sleeping bag and dragging himself out of bed. “Maybe Boy’s Bash wasn’t such a good idea. Happy first day of camp, everyone, I’m sorry for enabling.” 

“Well, _I_ feel great,” Liam announces smugly, hopping off the top bunk like a limber and not at all hungover gazelle. He lands next to Niall, who he claps on the back. “Looks like you guys had a little too much last night.” He’s met with a hoarse chorus of whines and grumbles from Harry and Zayn. 

“M’dying,” Louis rasps, meaning it. He manages to at least sit up, still zipped into the cocoon of his sleeping bag, blinking grumpily in the grey morning light. It’s so fucking early. The kids are gonna be here soon, and he probably smells like _booze_...and that’s not okay, not at all. He needs a shower, and he needs one _fast_ ; they always help him recover his humanity from the void when he’s terrifically hungover. “I need…need a shower. Terribly,” he croaks. “Think I have time before the buses get here for central check in?” 

“If you run,” Zayn says bleakly. “Don’t think you can run right now.” 

“Louis, I need to shower, too, so I’ll go with you. We can hurry,” Harry says, emerging from under Louis and looking up at him for all the world like the fucking angel Gabriel or something. A hungover, sticky-eyed version of the angel Gabriel, with pillow creases in his cheeks. Louis is so devastated he wants to cry. 

He needs a shower, like, so badly. But he doesn’t want to go with Harry; he doesn’t want Harry to see him so sick and pitiful and pathetic. But he needs a shower. 

That’s how Louis ends up trailing after Harry down the hill to the locker room, wearing his sunglasses and PJs and thinking about how cruel it is that Harry fell asleep in that Stones shirt, the one he pinned shut last night. The pins are still in, and Harry keeps hooking his index finger into the gap between them idly, striding down the trail, occasionally tripping over his untied Chucks. Louis shambles after him, his whole body aching, even if his head is feeling a little better, now that he’s out in the fresh air. Dawn has only recently broken over the Sierras, so it’s mostly grey outside, but Louis can tell it’s going to be hot and gorgeous and sunny later, perfect summer-camp weather, with blue skies and the sort of heat that feels _clean_ as it beats down on you. He shivers, feeling unworthy of such a summer day, too gross to be outside, to exist at all. “Can you…can you slow down,” Louis whimpers, not able to keep up with this long-legged person, even if he’s a clumsy and uncoordinated long-legged person. “I’m so fucking hungover. It’s making me slow.” 

Harry smiles and stands in the middle of the road, pigeon-toed as Louis catches up. He’s all rosy-cheeked, tired maybe, but not wrecked like Louis is. Probably because he wasn’t drinking to stay sane, like Louis was. “Sorry, didn’t mean to leave you behind. Thought you, like…wanted privacy. I dunno,” Harry says sheepishly, averting his eyes and carding a hand through his hair, looking at the ground furtively and fleetingly, and Louis remembers that Harry is _younger_ than him. Was all of sixteen when they met two years ago, probably looked up to Louis in some ways, is still aware of their age gap. _I should fucking lighten up over this whole thing_ , Louis thinks to himself as he walks beside Harry in mostly comfortable silence, their arms bumping a little. 

“Nah, I don’t mind the company,” he says, coughing a little. “Honestly, I don’t think I would have actually made myself walk all the way over here if you hadn’t offered,” Louis says, shivering with his arms wrapped around himself as they arrive at the main locker room. Harry opens the door, and it’s silent and echoey inside, a far cry from the streamy, crowded hell-cave it can turn into when it’s busy in the evenings. 

“No problem,” Harry grins over his shoulder at Louis, all dimples and sunshine and bad ideas. “I used to come shower at night but I’m gonna switch it up I think...it’s so much less busy in the morning, basically empty. I can sing Stevie Wonder songs all I want, and no one to make fun.” 

“You sing Stevie Wonder during your morning showers?” Louis asks, slowly lowering himself onto one of the benches by the lockers, wincing at how cold the metal is, even through his sweat pants. 

“Not _just_ Stevie Wonder… I also like to sing Whitney Houston, Diana Ross, Gloria Gaynor…you know. The greats,” Harry says, flicking his gaze to Louis carefully, almost _coyly_. There’s a smirk twisting his lovely lips up at the side, too, and Louis feels like he’s missing something _important,_ but his head is too muddy and clouded to pick it up. Harry thumps his toiletry bag--it’s pink, with _flamingos_ on it, how will Louis survive--onto the bench beside him before unzipping it for his shampoo and soap and toothbrush. “Oh!” he exclaims, eyes getting wide, mouth getting wider. “I totally forgot! Niall and I picked out gifts for you and Liam and Zayn for being so cool about us rooming with you, but we totally forgot to give them to you! Anyway, I got yours, here it is,” Harry explains, handing a canister to Louis with much flourish. 

Louis stares at it a minute before it registers what it is, heart still thudding too hard from the idea of Harry getting him fucking _presents_ , of Harry singing Gloria Gaynor, for him to focus on anything. _I will survive_ , Louis thinks bravely, smiling in quiet, speechless wonder at how fucking _sweet and thoughtful_ Harry Styles is. 

“It’s instant coffee,” Harry blurts, getting up on his knees and swaying dangerously close to Louis, all eager and impossible. “I know that’s not, like, _ideal,_ but it’s better than nothing, and I know you’ve been so tired, and coffee makers are contraband…so hopefully this will help you with your mornings.” 

“Thanks…thank you. So much Harry, I really, really appreciate it,” Louis says quietly, sort of overwhelmed and choked up. “I’d hug you, but I don’t want to throw up on you,” Louis offers, shrugging awkwardly and internally kicking himself for being the world's most awkward person, threatening to _vomit_ on the man of his _dreams_. 

“I’ll take a hug raincheck, then. For later, when you’re feeling better,” Harry says, standing and beaming, stretching his arms over his head so that his abs show for a solid second, despite Louis’s valiant attempts at fixing that stupid rip. Louis lovingly puts away his coffee.. “Don’t forget,” Harry reminds him. 

“Oh, I won’t,” Louis promises, draping his towel over his shoulders and picking his way across the cold, puddled floor to his favorite shower, which is all the way in the back corner. He likes this shower because it has an actual _wall_ on one side instead of just curtains, so it feels more private, somehow. He steps in and shucks his clothes off, painfully aware of the sound of Harry digging through his flamingo bag and taking off his own clothes. He turns on the water so he doesn’t have to hear it, wincing in the sudden cold. 

As he waits for it to heat up, miserable and freezing and covered in goosebumps, he dreams of a fresh, hot mug of instant coffee, which he will sip on his way down from the mess hall to the barn, where he will have his first lesson of camp. And Zayn’s gonna give him a hard time about last night, but he’ll also be encouraging and reassuring about it and help him with the inevitable freak out that’s gonna follow this unexpected _shower date_. It’s gonna be fine. Good, even. 

Once the water is warm enough, Louis just stands under it for a minute, motionless and blissful as the spray cascades over his head, hot and comforting, like a camp-shower baptismal. He’s zoning out in the glorious wet burn when he hears Harry _pull the curtain back of the shower right next to him,_ even though the _entire fucking locker room is empty_. He could take any shower. Any shower at all. He could have used one at the opposite side of the whole building, and Louis wouldn’t have had to think about it, wouldn’t have had to imagine his tan and unfairly broad body taking up that whole tiny cramped stall, wouldn't have had to picture his nipples pebbled up in the cold while he waited for _his_ water to heat up. Instead, he was having to stare at Harry’s weird, bare feet standing _so fucking close_ , visible from the shin down because the curtains are modest but not floor length. 

“No flip-flops?! Are you an _animal?_ ” Louis asks, because he has to say something. 

“I don’t really care…plus I totally forgot ‘em. I’m not a germaphobe or anything, I won’t die, right?” Harry says, before he tries to kick Louis from under the curtain, and luckily Louis is far enough away that he misses because if he had tried to dart away, he might have slipped and killed himself. Instead, he just covers his dick with his hand, like Harry’s _foot_ might be able to see him. 

“Not die but get _athlete’s foot_ or some other weird disease. S’disgusting. My skin’s crawling just thinking about it, ugh, I revoke my hug raincheck,” Louis lies, squirting some body wash onto his hands and vigorously cleaning himself, trying to scrub off all his impure thoughts. Not of bare feet in locker rooms but of Harry Styles’s woefully naked body only inches away. The truth is that Louis only wears flip-flops in the shower because Liam gives him such a hard time whenever he goes barefoot that he feels like he’s developed some kind of a complex as a result. In actuality, no one in the world cares less about foot germs than Louis Tomlinson, a boy who has walked barefoot around gas stations before and survived to tell the tale. But according to Liam, if you shower in the locker room barefoot, you’re vile, and no one will ever like you or want to touch you again. He obviously doesn't believe this, but he wants Harry to like him, so he wore the goddamned sandals. But now Harry isn’t wearing a pair, and he’s the one giving _him_ a hard time about it. Louis is a fake. 

“Heeeey! That’s mean, you will not...I got you _coffee_ , and you owe me a hug,” Harry says, and Louis can _hear_ the pout in his voice, which is bad enough, but then he can actually _see it_ because Harry’s poking his head around the fucking _curtain_ while simultaneously covering himself with it, as if _this is at all an acceptable or normal thing to do to your friend who's in the shower._

Louis panics, wishing for the first time in his entire life that he was in _any other shower stall_ so that he could grab the opposite curtain and cover _himself_ with _that_ , since Harry _so rudely_ stole the other one. There’s nothing but cold, wet, evil _wall_ , though, so he has to make do with his arms, shrieking in an awful and ear-splitting way, which seems to scare Harry into retreating. “What the fuck are you doing!” Louis yelps, plastering himself onto the horrid and unforgiving concrete. Luckily, the moment only lasts a split-second, and Harry covers his eyes for most of it before ducking back into the safety of his own shower. 

“Oh, god, so sorry! Oh, my god. I just…I forgot you were naked in there,” Harry explains frantically, and Louis rolls his eyes because _of course_ Harry isn’t as hypertuned to Louis's nudity as he is to his… _why would he be_? He’s weird and gorgeous and rightfully shameless about his own body, and Louis knows this because he never covers up when he’s changing in 14C. Louis _knows._

“ _How_ did you forget I was naked?! I’m in the fucking _shower_ , Harold. Where one is generally naked,” Louis snaps, rinsing himself and shutting the water off, ready to strand Harry Styles in the locker room. Tthey’re probably _late_ already, he’s still hungover, and everything is _stressful_. He dries himself off inefficiently, pulling on his stonewash jeans with the cuffed ankles and his camp shirt, irritated by how _wet_ everything is, even though it was hanging on the hook _outside_ the shower.

“I just did! I’m not fully awake, and I drank too much last night,” Harry defends himself, shutting off his own water and skidding out of the stall on his _bare feet_ , which Louis resents. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, voice echoing, too loud. 

“You’re forgiven,” he sighs, rounding on Harry, who’s dripping and still wearing nothing but his towel tucked loosely around his waist. It’s terrible. “Get dressed...we’ve gotta get to central check in fast, I can hear people heading down already.” 

“Okay,” Harry says resolutely, hands on his hips. He adjusts his towel, biting his mouth and just staring at Louis with this weird look on his face, brows sort of knit and eyes full darkness, too much pupil. Louis is suddenly _scared_ , frozen in the heat of that scrutinizing gaze, thinking, _I will survive_ in a pitiful, not at all comforting loop to himself. He was going to have to process this with Zayn to begin with, before it became _truly_ traumatic, but now he’s going to need a full-fledged therapy session about it or something. “Are you mad?” Harry asks then, pressing his lips together. 

Louis’s eyes widen because he wasn’t expecting that, not exactly. “No,” he says, head cocked. This should be a joke, he realizes. A boy poking his head into his shower and possibly seeing his junk should be a _riot,_ something to crack up over, tease him about later. Louis would have made it into a joke easily if it was anyone else, and he wonders what it says about him that it has turned into _this_. Tense silence and Harry’s eyes so fucking green they’re radioactive, the muscles in his face tight with worry while the slick wet-black of his hair drips down his shoulders. Louis wants to lick those droplets off; he wants to shove Harry into the wall like he had to shove himself into it, breath hot in his ear as he tells him, _do you have any idea what you’re fucking doing to me? I’m not mad, I just want you to_ look _at me the way I look at you. I want to tear you apart._ Louis swallows thickly, hating that he can’t say anything but _no_ , that he can’t look away from the hot black of Harry’s wide, shot pupils. 

“Okay, good,” Harry says carefully, gaze still searching. “I guess now would be a bad time to cash in my raincheck, wouldn’t it?” he asks then, a sly, slow smile melting the corners of his mouth, which twitch before they twist into a cautious shape. 

Somethings breaks, and Louis can _finally_ , finally roll his eyes. “Absolutely,” he tells him. “Try me in a few hours, when camp’s in full swing, and I’m already sick of all the kids. I might need a hug then. Even if you did stick your head in my goddamned _shower._ ”

Harry grins, turning and dropping his towel easily to get dressed, and Louis looks away quickly, alarmed. _I will survive,_ he thinks, but who fucking knows anymore. 

—-  
Louis survives the chaos of central check in, and he’s not saying that it’s _because_ of Harry’s instant coffee, but it certainly helps. He does a spectacular job of faking his way through the morning, hugging returning campers and belting camp cheers at top volume as he and Zayn lead their first pack of kids down to the barn for the horse safety overview. He’s downright _chipper_ by their second lesson, even though Moxie manages to nip him pretty good on the back of the arm when he trudges back into the paddock to switch out the demo horses. He doesn’t _care_ , though: he’s dusty, he thinks he might be getting sunburned already, and there’s a hole in his left riding boot, but he’s around horses, and he loves horses, and despite his hangover and complaints, he _truly_ , truly loves camp counseling. There’s just something magical about seeing the kids’ faces, all round and bright and amazed, as they watch the horses milling around in the paddock, like twenty beaten-down school nags are the coolest and most exciting things in the world. Louis loves it. 

“I hate you,” he hisses to Moxie affectionately, sliding the nylon halter off of Peaches, everyone’s favorite palomino, in favor of Waffle, a fat buckskin who has been known to fall asleep when particularly tiny kids are on top of him. Waffle is an excellent horse to demo safety and ground protocol on because he’ll just sort of snooze while Zayn and Louis move around him, explaining where kids should and shouldn’t stand, how the best way to feed a horse is without getting your fingers bitten off. Louis pulls the halter over Waffle’s nose and fastens it before leading him out, cringing as he kicks some dirt into the hole of his boot. Well, it’s a _fun_ job, but it certainly isn’t glamorous. 

Louis pats Waffle’s shoulder as he walks him out, turning him around and latching the gate behind them both before leading him into the cross ties where Zayn and the rest of the horsemanship counselors are waiting with the latest batch of kids. Louis scans the crowd idly, looking for campers he recognizes, eyes narrowed behind his aviators as he yells, “Sierra Trails Adventure Camp, is this the moment you’ve been waiting for all day?! All _summer_? To again be reunited with the _fabulous_ Waffle and the gang—” his voice dies in his throat, and he starts _coughing_ because amid the campers bouncing around excitedly and trying to get a good look is _Harry Fucking Styles_ , standing patiently and grinning like an idiot, arms crossed over his chest. _What the fuck is he doing here?!_ Louis thinks, in a panic. 

Zayn sees, snickers, and takes over. “Alright, everyone, so what’s Louis doing wrong? What are we never supposed to do around the horses unless we’re a counselor?” 

Three hands shoot up, and one over-eager little girl yells, “Shout!” before clapping her hand down over her own mouth. “Sorry,” she adds. 

“Right!” Zayn praises. “Now, who can name three _more_ things we should never do around the horses?” The same girl raises her hand, politely this time, and Zayn points to her and winks. She turns _visibly red_ because Zayn is very pretty and has long-ass eyelashes, and little girls at camp _always get crushes on him_ , it’s inevitable. Louis, who’s still recovering from the horror of unexpectedly seeing Harry, tan and handsome and freakishly tall next to the kids, is realizing with full clarity that all the girls will _also_ have crushes on Harry this summer. He’s not the _only_ one who’s doomed to a stomach full of butterflies every time he sees him, and something about that makes him feel weird, resentful. Possessive, even, which is fucking embarrassing. It’s not like he actually feels jealous of or threatened by a bunch of nine-year-olds with braces or anything; it’s more like…he’s _always_ thought Harry was cute, and he resents that everyone else can see it now, too, that he’s gonna have to hear every girl from age six to fifteen _talk_ about it now. 

He can already _see it happening_. Three of the girls in his group are distracted, craning their heads around to look at (an adorably oblivious) Harry, whispering and totally missing Zayn’s horse safety spiel, which is annoying and also _dangerous_. Louis snaps his fingers at them. “Oi, Mandy, Sarah, Natalie. Eyes up here. You each tell Zayn three safety precautions, or you aren’t riding tomorrow, okay?” he says firmly. They freeze before they pout, sullen, and Zayn elbows him gently in the ribs, shooting him a _look_. 

“Go see what your boy wants,” he murmurs. “Don’t need you turning into a hard-ass the first day of camp.” 

“I hate you and your horse. And he’s not my _boy_ ,” Louis whispers back, stomping from the cross ties to the half-circle of straw bales in the shade where the kids are watching from a safe distance. Harry waves to him, like he didn’t notice that Louis already knew he was there. 

“Hey!” Harry says conversationally, grin too bright, too dimply. “Would have pegged Zayn for the strict one and you as the fun guy, to be honest, but I’m impressed anyway,” he adds, and Louis fakes a smile. 

“We’re versatile,” he answers curtly, well aware that Camilla, one of the other horsemanship counselors, followed him and is just standing awkwardly behind him like some social-climbing Jane Austen character, eyes fixed on Harry in a very Mandy, Sarah, Natalie fashion. Louis’s stomach turns over because _of course_ it’s not just gonna be campers, it’s gonna be other counselors, too. Harry is objectively hot. Inter-counselor romances are strictly against the rules, but they _always_ happen anyway, people are always hooking up and creating drama and sneaking to each other’s cabins at night. Zayn almost got himself fucking _fired_ last summer after he got caught in a girl’s SC cabin after curfew. Louis doesn’t know why he didn’t prepare himself for this whole other side of Harry’s sucker-punch sexiness, how he’s been so wrapped up in his own crush that he forgot he was gonna be just one in a million. 

“Hi, Harry,” Camilla says, voice bright and shy and singsongy all at once. Camilla is so pretty, with her long dark hair and lip-gloss lips and the delicate arch in her back from years of horseback riding. It’s way too easy to imagine Harry liking her. “You coming over to the cool kids’ side? Ditching art to teach horsemanship?” 

Harry shakes his head, shoving his hands into his pockets. “No, m’afraid of horses. S’why I’m hanging back here waiting patiently instead of, like, actually, like, going up and talking to you guys.”

“What do you want?” Louis snaps, shaking his fringe out of his eyes. 

Harry reels back a little. “Oh, shit, I’m sorry if I interrupted your lesson…I, s’just, Maddy, the little blonde girl, she forgot her inhaler at the art table,” he explains, fishing it out of his shirt pocket and handing it over to them. Camilla reaches for it, snatching it up before Louis can. 

“Oh, thanks, Harry, that’s so sweet of you to bring it to us,” she beams, so bright and pretty, teeth all white and straight because she probably had braces when she was a kid. She probably even looked good with them, one of those girls who never had an awkward phase. Louis’s chest feels absurdly tight, and he can’t remember what words are, why he’s here, why he didn’t just let Camilla come over and collect the fucking inhaler since she clearly has it covered and Harry clearly didn’t come to, like…visit him personally or anything. “I’ll go take it to her right now,” she says, patting Harry’s forearm for a split-second before bounding away, graceful and eager. 

Louis just stands there, feeling sort of useless while Harry looks at him. “Um, thanks,” he says eventually, and Harry shrugs. 

“No problem. I, like…I would have gone up and handed it to you, but there’s a horse. This is about as close as I can get to them before I start to freak out,” Harry explains, rubbing at the back of his neck with his palm. His shirt is tight enough that the sleeve kind of digs into his armpit, and Louis can see his underarm hair matted down with sweat, dark and soft-looking, and the pain in his chest gets incrementally sharper. 

“S’fine. You should work on that, though…your horse problem,” Louis gestures awkwardly in the air between them. “Since there are so many of them here at camp.” 

He means it as a joke, but he doesn’t laugh it off, and neither does Harry. Things are tense again, tense like they were in the locker room this morning, a memory that seems so much further away than a few hours ago, steam-hazy and too hot to touch. Louis’s stomach is in knots as Harry says, “Well, you could help me with that sometime, if you want. Though I doubt you’d want to spend your free time teaching horse lessons when you do it all day…,” he trails off, shrugging, making a face at himself like he doesn’t understand why things are suddenly so awkward between them. Or like he regrets busting in on Louis in his fucking _shower_ this morning. Louis at least hopes Harry blames all the tension on that moment and not on Louis’s fucking massive and debilitating fucking crush on him, the one that’s ruining his entire life. 

“I wouldn’t mind,” Louis says weakly, internally kicking himself for being so _terrible at everything_. “God, sorry. I’m, like…I sound like an asshole, but I’m not mad at you for the shower thing. It’s just been a long morning, and I’m still hungover,” he adds, shaking his head self-deprecatingly. “Thanks for bringing Maddy’s inhaler, she needs it. Gets really excited around the horses and starts wheezing in the dust…so, yeah. Just...thank you.” 

Harry smiles, looking relieved. “Of course! Perrie was gonna bring it over because she knows I have the horse thing, but I wanted to see you and apologize again for this morning and see how your head was…,” he looks up hopefully, eyes wide in this way that makes Louis feel like he’s forgetting something, like he’s supposed to give Harry some type of answer or validation for a question he didn’t ask, but he doesn’t know what, or why. The moment cracks and shatters to nothingness, though, because Harry just reaches for him suddenly and pulls him into a hug, his body hot and hard and soft all at once, the type of soft that’s _solid_ , like a mattress, like fresh grass. Louis’s heart stops. 

He’s stunned silent, hands spread on Harry’s back, chin hooked over his sweat-damp shoulder. It only lasts a second before Harry lets him go and pulls away, eyes twinkling. “Was gonna ask to cash the hug raincheck, but I thought you’d say no, so I just did it anyway,” he says cheekily, chewing on his lip. “I gotta get back, but I hope you have a good lesson and that Maddy doesn’t have any asthma attacks or anything. And, really, I’m so sorry for this morning, Lou…I just.Yeah. M’sorry.” He turns on his heel and wobbles off then, waving sheepishly at Louis, who may or may not be dizzy and unable to breathe. 

He floats back to Zayn and Waffle, brow furrowed and chest still tingling from where it was pressed up against Harry’s, thundering with the force of his heart. Zayn gives him a _look_ again when he gets there, eyebrows quirked judgmentally. “I’m all for you getting it and doing what you need to do to get it, but I can’t have you _and_ Camilla slinking off to go drool over him while I do my actual job. I hate public speaking, Lou, you know that.” 

“I’m so sorry,” Louis mumbles, squeezing Zayn’s wrist, moving slowly because he’s in a daze. He really needs…something. A trail ride, to get out on a horse and out in nature, so he can stop thinking about the way Harry Styles’s fucking armpit looks so _lickable_ , the way his hugs are so big, so crushing. “I didn’t even know Camilla was gonna follow, otherwise I wouldn’t have even gone…anyway, I’m sorry. I’ll lead all the demos after lunch, okay?” 

Zayn looks at him sternly, with narrowed eyes, and Louis pouts for a full three seconds before Zayn softens up a little, forgiving him. Camilla is really pretty and really sweet, sure, but Louis _hates_ her so very unfairly right now as she lets kids come up in pairs and curry sweat off Waffle’s saddle mark while he stands and snores. She makes a plaintive sound, gesturing to them. “Boys, a little help?” she whines, stamping her boot. (It’s a knee-high English riding boot, like, who the fuck wears that to teach camp lessons? Louis decides in this moment that it’s a pretentious thing to do and wishes he had a pair of bedazzled pink cowboy boots to wear in protest or something, though his broken paddock boots and half-chaps will have to do.) 

Louis grudgingly walks over, hooking his fingers into Waffle’s halter and sighing, wondering if Camilla’s voice has always been so annoying or if having a crush on Harry makes one’s voice more annoying than it usually is, and if he suffers from the same affliction. 

As he supervises the kids coming up and very gently patting Waffle in greeting before they start to brush, he thinks of that hug, and then he thinks of it again. 

—-

Louis doesn’t see Harry again until the camp-wide swim test in the late afternoon. It’s the last activity before dinner and campfire, and Louis is so fucking filthy and hungry and sun-bleached from his first full day down at the barn that he absolutely cannot _wait_ to strip out of his clingy breeches and camp shirt and into his trunks. He runs back to 14C, bursting through the door, toeing off his boots and chaps, yanking his shirt over his head, and spraying on a last-minute coat of sunscreen before trading his breeches for trunks and sprinting down the hill with every intention of cannonballing off the dock asap. 

His plans are momentarily halted by the Yellow Shorts. 

When he finally gets to the lakeshore, the kids are lined up by age, shivering in their bathing suits (and, in some cases, water wings), shrieking and laughing while the chief counselors try to quiet everyone down by bleating on their whistles. It’s chaos as usual, and Louis would normally throw himself headfirst into the thick of it, but he’s standing frozen instead, which is apparently something he does approximately seventy-five times a day now, thanks to Harry Styles. 

Harry Styles, who has always worn the Yellow Shorts to swim in. Highlighter fucking yellow nylon, which draws the eye unfairly, sure, but up until this moment was also mostly unflattering and absurd, like many of the things Harry used to wear before he became positively lethal (see: purple supras). 

The issue Louis is currently facing is that Harry is wearing _the same pair of fucking yellow shorts as always_ , but due to his inhuman growth spurt, they’re no longer unflattering or absurd. They’re three sizes too small at best, riding dangerously high on Harry’s plump, toned thighs, the very thighs that Louis has been doing everything in his power to _not_ fantasize about sinking down between, shoving apart, kissing, bruising, and thumbing into. But now he can _see them_ , see the way the skin is softer and paler halfway up the plane of his quads. He can imagine in horrible, vivid detail how _easy_ it would be to scour the delicate inside with his stubble, how quickly he could mark Harry up. And _fuck_ , Louis wants so badly to mark Harry up, to get his teeth in him and bite down, to make him _realize_ how insufferably _hot_ he is. Because if those shorts and their obscene length is any indicator, Harry doesn’t _know_ , really, doesn’t have any idea what the sight of his legs might do to a guy. 

“Oh, my god,” Louis whimpers, face in his hands as he sidles up between Zayn and Liam, who are standing in the shade and applying sunscreen. It’s the thick zinc kind that streaks white if you don’t rub it in properly, so Zayn is giving himself a full-scale fucking cardio workout trying to rub it all into Liam’s shoulders, face strained as Louis approaches. “Have you guys _seen_ what I’m dealing with here?” 

Liam glances up, shooting Louis a sympathetic look that’s very hard to take seriously because he has fucking sunscreen on his nose. “I did see. He doesn’t really fit in those shorts anymore, sort of looks like a go-go dancer, doesn’t he?” 

Louis’s both impressed and surprised that Liam knows what a go-go dancer looks like at all, but he _agrees_ , so it’s not worth giving him a hard time about. “They’re, like…the size of a postage stamp. A very yellow postage stamp. I can see the outline of his _dick_ , you guys, what am I supposed to…oh, god, he’s coming over,” Louis gasps, clapping his hands over his mouth. Zayn rolls his eyes at him, turning Liam around so he can fix the sunscreen on his face, thumbing it out of his scruff.

“Hi, guys,” Harry chirps, side-stepping into their circle and grinning. “What age group are you gonna take? Niall and I were all set to go with the little ones, but he stepped in nettle and is at the infirmary now, so m’all alone, wanna team up?” 

Louis, who’s scanning the surrounding woods for literally anything that isn’t Harry’s dick in the Yellow Shorts (he spots two fighting squirrels and a clump of mushrooms, fantastic), says nothing. Liam, who’s perhaps _too good_ of a wingman, says, “Well, Zayn and I are already assigned the twelve- to fifteen-year-olds because we’re lazy and they’ve been through the drill a million times, so we don’t have to do much, but Louis just got here, so you two should partner up. He likes the little ones, right, Tommo?” 

“Yeah,” Louis says faintly, pretending to be so fucking interested in the fighting squirrels that he can’t be bothered to look at Harry and his endless legs and stupidly toned torso with the smattering of tiny, ugly (but still somehow attractive?!) tattoos on the inside of his bicep. “The six- to nine-year-olds?” he asks without looking at Harry. 

Harry grabs him by his arm and steers him away from the other boys and to the dock eagerly. “Yes! C’mon, it’s so hot, and I wanna get in the water already. Believe it or not, the swim test is actually _hard_ for me. My first year as a JC I only passed half of it and was banished to the shallows, it was awful,” he snorts, shaking his head so his curls tumble into his face. Louis’s looking at him now in spite of himself--he can’t help it--eyes skirting over Harry because he’s caught up in the force of his electromagnetic field and can’t help but hurtle toward him indefinitely. 

“Oh, I believe it,” he says, hooking his arm through Harry’s because it’s patronizing and awkward and sexually frustrating to be dragged around by your forearm like a dog on a leash by a boy who’s two years younger than you and wearing minuscule shorts. They walk like that, like Watson and Fucking Holmes taking a stroll through London, and Louis doesn’t have any idea what counts as flirtation or normal roughhousing or casual physical contact anymore, so he just goes with it, patting Harry’s hand where it rests on his own elbow, like it’s the worst fucking thing in the world. “I don’t _just_ believe it, I remember it...you nearly drowned yourself because you couldn’t tread water. A strange and surprising fate for a merman,” he chides, grinning coyly because he doesn’t know how else to grin at Harry Styles anymore. 

Harry beams back. “I’m a great swimmer!! I just kept getting distracted and forgetting I was supposed to be treading the water and then sinking…my legs got tired…,” he trails off, scanning the edge of the dock for their age group before pointing at them. “There are our kids!” 

Louis wants to die because the last thing he should be thinking about is having kids with Harry Styles. Harry Styles building a treehouse with him in their backyard. Harry Styles standing barefoot in the Yellow Shorts while he bends at the waist to show some little curly headed girl the proper form for kicking a soccer ball. Louis _loathes_ that he’s not only having thigh-chewing fantasies about Harry, but golden retriever and white picket fence fantasies. He wants to be _domestic_ with him as much as he wants to fuck him to pieces, and he’s pretty sure that’s the difference between lust and another four-letter L word he refuses to think about, even in the privacy of his own brain. It’s…entirely unacceptable. He chews the inside of his mouth and lets go of Harry’s arm decidedly. It’s way early for him to be getting this deep. 

In minutes, they’re wading into the water, which is colder than Louis anticipated, probably because his whole body is on alert, and everything feels more sensitive, more intense. Harry keeps giggling for no reason, wincing at the cold and bracing himself unsteadily on Louis, which is preventing Louis from completing his own mission (submerging his entire body, but mostly his troublesome _dick_ , in cold-ass lake water to stop him from further embarrassing himself). He finally wrenches away and catapults into the lake, the chill of it so sudden and cold, pushing into his eyelids like icy thumbs, making his heart thud against his ribs in shock. He surfaces, sputtering, refusing to look back at Harry as he crashes into the water after him in favor of dog-paddling out to the dock, where the chief counselors are waiting with stopwatches. 

The swim test consists of two tasks. The first part involves swimming from the shore to the dock and then back again (ten feet or so of mostly shallow water), and its prize is an orange wristband that grants access to the territory between the dock and the shoreline. The second part requires treading water for a full five minutes on the opposite side of the dock, which earns a blue wristband and access to the entire roped-off, camp-approved section of the lake. The six- to -nine-year-old group is likely to have only a handful of blue wristband campers, so Louis suspects he’s gonna have to haul exhausted kids onto the dock three minutes into their water-tread task for the next hour or so. He makes it to the dock and hoists himself up, dripping, and Harry is not far behind him, hair slicked to his forehead, dark and pretty. Louis scowls at him as he surfaces. “Hey, Harry,” he starts, holding his foot out to keep Harry a leg’s distance away, toes pointed, “has anyone told you yet that your shorts are too tight?” 

“No,” Harry coughs out, spitting water and looking up at Louis with a furrowed brow. “But why does it matter? I wasn’t gonna buy new shorts for _camp_. They’re just gonna get stretched out and messed up, so it seems like a waste, plus there’s no one to, like, impress,” Harry explains, swiping uselessly at Louis’s foot, which he snatches away quickly. It’s stupid, but he’s hurt that Harry thinks there’s no one here to impress.

“Not even Camilla?” he snaps in a pitiful, petty voice. He kicks up a rooster tail of lake water, and the splash gets Harry in the face. 

Harry’s brow furrows further as he ducks away. “Who?” he asks, and Louis should _not_ feel a bubble of elation expanding in his chest, but he does. 

“Nevermind. Are you gonna fail your water-tread test on behalf of all the six-year-olds?” Louis asks conversationally, scissoring his feet in the water, cocking his head. “Or should I pull you up?” 

Harry does a very terrible thing then and sucks up a mouthful of water before spitting it out at Louis like a fountain, pink lips forming a perfect, obscene O. Louis gasps, offended, batting at the air defensively even though he’s already wet. “I can hoist _myself up_ , thank you,” Harry says cheekily, water dribbling down his chin all lovely-like, and Louis doesn’t _doubt it_ , with arms like that. Harry flounders up onto the dock clumsily, hair all over his face, the _Yellow Shorts_ hugging the curve of his ass, wet and wedged up into the crack, and Louis’s short of breath, he’s going into cardiac arrest, he’s gonna _drown_ , even though he isn’t swimming anymore. “Jesus,” he says, hiding his eyes as if it’s his only defense. “You wanna borrow a pair of my trunks next time? You’re gonna get in trouble--some kid’s gonna get an eyeful and be traumatized or something, Harold,” Louis says, feeling very sorry for himself as Harry stands up and adjusts his illegal shorts, rivulets of water coursing down his cut torso, the stuff of fucking fantasies. 

“D’you think yours would even fit me?” he asks, cocking his hips where Louis’s still sitting, at crotch level, the worst possible place for him to be, and his mouth is watering, he _can’t move_. “You’re short,” Harry observes, like it’s fact. 

Louis gasps again. “I am _not_! You're full of lies, and your clothes don’t fit,” he snaps back, standing up in a flash and grabbing Harry by the shoulders, wrestling him to the edge of the dock, determined to push him off and assert his authority, which he feels is, like, _dwindling by the second_ , and that just cannot happen. Harry’s skin is slippery and slick and warm all at once as the sun beats down on them, and Louis is dizzy with the smell of sunscreen and lake water and Harry’s sweet breath, which huffs out into the tight space between them as he cackles, fighting Louis but only half-heartedly. It’s _easy_ to bring him to the edge and shove him off, and Louis whoops in triumph as Harry pinwheels his arms in the air for a moment before leaping off the dock, spasming spectacularly into the water in an absolute mess of limbs and highlighter yellow. It serves him right, for having such improbable legs and for wearing such a life-ruining piece of clothing, if you can even it call it that. 

Ben Killjoy Winston, one of the chief counselors, strides over to Louis, scowling, combatively brandishing a whistle and a stopwatch. He’s wearing socks with pinatas on them, because he thinks wearing stuff like that will help him connect to the youth or something. Ben is embarrassing, but still Louis shrinks away a little--he kind of forgot the swim test is about to happen. “Tommo,” Ben warns, depositing the stopwatch into his hand. “It’s the first day, and I don’t want to already be reminding you to quit roughhousing. Do I need to separate you two?” 

“No, no, m’sorry,” Louis says quickly, saluting Ben and grinning in what he hopes isn’t a transparently guilty fashion. Harry is hauling himself up onto the deck again, sputtering his own apology. 

“Sorry, Ben!” he wheezes, spreading out on the deck in his tiny, evil shorts, making a puddle. “S’at least half my fault.” 

Louis rolls his eyes because half is being generous--it’s, like, 99% Harry and his shorts’ fault. He clamors down onto the deck, sitting gingerly with his stopwatch and saluting. “We’re ready to time the kids, all locked up and responsible as we should be, Ben,” he says, smiling a winning smile. 

Ben doesn’t look charmed. “You better be,” he grumbles, blowing his whistle. 

Louis sighs and casts his gaze back to shore, where the first two kids are starting their messy, all-limbs dog-paddle to the dock. He bites his lip; Harry’s feet keep brushing his own in the chill of the lake, fleeting and accidental, and it shouldn’t make his stomach swoop, but it _does_.


	4. Chapter 4

It takes Louis longer than usual to get into the swing of camp, but by the end of the first week, he’s emerged from his chrysalis a fully formed CounselorTM, complete with an arsenal of cheesy songs and expert marshmallow-roasting techniquqe. He’s back to being the absolute highlight of campfire (his verses to “On Top of Spaghetti” and “Bungalow” alone are Grammy-worthy, and don’t even get him _started_ on the future he has in improv comedy; his skits are golden). Louis is at the top of his game, an effective balance between firm and fun, and it’s really a _shame_ it took him this long to get it back because the first Friday of camp marks the arrival of the annual, dreaded, totally unnecessary, complete bane of Louis’s camp existence, _overnight hike_ , which is guaranteed to throw him off again.

Louis is a camp counselor, not a fucking _master camper_ , and as unglamorous and uncomfortable as the bunks in 14C are, at least they’re surrounded by four walls and a ceiling, plus there’s a radiator if it gets too cold. This is not the case in the _wilderness_ , which is where Louis and the rest of camp (save for the frail, lucky kids who got doctors to sign a waiver) will be sleeping tonight. On a tarp, in a horrid mountain-and-pine-flanked clearing about a mile from camp. 

Louis _hates_ this day; he always feels filthy, and he can’t sleep. The one year he managed to actually nod off for a few hours before dawn, he woke up with a small trail of carpenter ants marching an inch or so away from his _face_ , and he has never quite recovered from that. The only remotely fun bit about the overnight hike is the actual _hike_ part, which lasts the better part of the day and is sort of serious and strenuous, as far as hikes at kids’ camps go. Louis’s legs are generally sore after the fact, but in a satisfying way, the same way they are after a whole day of riding. Except he’s _not_ riding, which makes him resentful of the pain, but whatever. It’s part of his job, so he has to do it, and at least Liam is fucking hilarious the whole time, sharing unsolicited facts about the foliage with anyone who will listen, jogging up to literal piles of animal shit on the trail and crouching down in front of them, poking them with a stick and talking about how coyotes are technically omnivores and will eat berries when there’s nothing to hunt or scavenge. Louis has learned so much about animal shit from Liam on the overnight hikes. It’s a small blessing amid hours of discomfort, though. 

He’s just about packed up, his duffle bag stuffed with the most basic of toiletries and his sleeping bag. He grudgingly swings it over his shoulder and grimaces at how _heavy_ it is, at how badly he _doesn’t want_ to carry this thing for any prolonged period of time, especially when the destination of his trek is an ant-infested tarp. 

Harry zips up his own duffle bag and pokes his head out from the bottom bunk, giving Louis a look that’s deceitfully innocent and way too cute. “Do you think I need a jacket? Is it gonna be cold?” 

“ _Hell_ , no, it’s gonna be sweaty and awful the whole time. I don’t even want to bring a shirt,” Louis gripes, dropping a sock onto Harry’s face and smiling to himself, pleased with how it lands, making Harry shake his head and sputter to displace it. “I say bring as little as possible. Save your back, young Harold.” 

“Well, in that case, I’m all packed…shall we?” Harry asks, ignoring the fact that Louis just put a dirty sock on his face and smiling anyway, like they’re friends. Easy, casual friends. Friends with a brotherly dynamic, the kind of friends who share a bunk bed without it being weird, who play chicken in the lake together without being hyperaware of the slide of skin, who sing “Summer Nights” as a duet during campfire because apparently it’s a fucking _riot_ for the kids to see Harry in a pink poodle skirt, belting out his verses in a falsetto (Louis doesn’t think it’s a riot; he very nearly died that night, it's amazing his heart is still beating at all). 

This is the dynamic that Louis has been trying in vain to sell himself to make his job easier, so that he doesn’t get too hung up and fucked in the head over Harry Styles: they’re _friends_ , closer this year because they’re sharing a cabin, but _friends_ all the same, and everything physical or flirtatious is one-sided and happens because Harry is the sort of straight guy who’s just very, very comfortable with his sexuality. Comfortable being Sandy to Louis’s Danny because he’s just _like that._ Louis needs to believe it’s this sort of dynamic because he can’t actually survive or handle it any other way if he has to entertain the possibility that they _do_ sometimes flirt, that Harry _might_ not be straight. These are the possibilities that give way to fantasies, and fantasies are entirely _unacceptable_ and limit Louis’s ability to _actually do his job_ , so he has to just…ignore all of that. Not think about how absurdly cute and weirdly comfortable Harry looks skipping around campfire in a poodle skirt. Not think about the way Harry’s pupils get wide and blown and black when they roughhouse in the lake. It’s easier that way.

They lock up the cabin and walk side by side down the hill in amiable silence to meet the other boys, most of whom are already down at the trailhead helping Liam, who aggressively wrangled them to assist him with some type of _Survivorman_ setup, although Louis suspects it’s a valiant and well-intentioned attempt to leave him and Harry alone together. Liam’s always trying to do that, and it’s sweet, but it’s not going to help Louis, not when the relationship he has with Harry is Strictly Friendly. Still, he appreciates the consideration. 

“Are you looking forward to the 24 hours of agony ahead?” Louis asks Harry cheerfully, shoulders already aching under the weight of his bag. 

Harry shoots a grin at him. “I actually _like_ the overnight hike! M’sort of into the idea of, like, _roughing it_. For a single night, anyway.” 

“Ugh,” Louis grimaces, shifting his weight to hip-check Harry, just like Friendly Friends do to Friends. “That’s because you’re an alien. It’s terrible. I don’t want to hear you complain after the first few miles when your back is hurting and you have blisters and you want to die,” Louis tells him, grinning cheekily. 

However, three miles into the hike, it’s Louis whose back is hurting and who has blisters and who wants to die. Louis who’s yelling, “How much _longer do we have to go_?!” and hanging from Niall’s neck because Zayn and Liam have already shoved him off ten times each, and he doesn’t dare drape himself over Harry, who is delightfully sweat-dewy right now, in his _sleeveless plaid shirt and stupid ‘70s headscarf_ , like, why must he make Louis suffer like this. 

Niall affectionately, if not patronizingly, pats his head. “Awww, Tommo, only a few more hours. The lookout point with the bathrooms and water fountain is coming up, so you can refill your canteen. And quit stealing from mine.” 

“And mine!” Liam snaps, possessively stroking his CamelBak, like it’s sentient. Louis sticks his tongue out at him. 

“I don’t want to refill my canteen because then it will be _heavy,_ and I can’t take anymore weight,” he snaps, peeling himself off Niall and looking down at his sweaty, dirt-streaked shins in dismay, wondering how the fuck he’s gonna sleep like this, in a patina of filth. 

Harry jogs up in that moment, holding a kid under his arm as she kicks in the air, shrieking in delight, because of _course_ Harry is still energetic enough to run and play with the kids and be all goofy and adorable. Louis rolls his eyes, saying, “Hello, Harold,” in a clipped voice as Harry sets the kid down and she skips away, giggling and blushing like _all_ the little girls do around him this summer. 

“Hello,” Harry says breathlessly. “Heard your bag was getting heavy...I don’t mind taking it if you want! My backpack strap broke, so I have to carry mine on one shoulder, and I’m all lopsided. It’s, like, really irritating, so m’balancing myself out by carrying kids around, but your bag would probably work better,” he explains, making grabby hands. 

Louis stares at them, Harry’s long, broad-knuckled fingers all long and golden, tan lines on his wrists from his bracelets. In slow motion, Louis’s eyes slide up his arms to his face to look for signs of deceit because _surely_ , surely this is a prank. The object of one’s desires doesn’t just race up and offer to carry one’s bag out of the kindness of his heart. Louis finds nothing suspicious, though, just Harry and his brilliant smile, his endearing dimples, his hair pushed up off his forehead to reveal where he’s broken out around his hairline, bumpy and pink and cute, because Harry’s the type of boy whose fucking _pimples_ are cute, along with his flush and his sweat and everything else. Louis thinks he’s probably breaking some promise to himself, maybe, but before he can decide better of it, he’s shouldering off his bag gratefully and handing it to Harry. “You’re a true lifesaver,” he says, still suspicious. Harry takes the bag without complaint, though, swinging it up onto this shoulder. “I suppose this is no great feat for you though, huh? How did you get so, like, _fit_? You weighed about ninety pounds last summer, and now you’re all ‘Hollister Model.’ What are your secrets?” Louis asks lightly, as if he isn’t just _laying the entire core of his summer turmoil_ out for Harry to examine. 

Harry blushes and shrugs, which makes Louis blush, too. “Oh, I dunno. S’not like I _work out_ or anything, I just, I have a bakery job? And I, like, load and unload a lot of stuff from the deliveries, like, bags of flour, when they come in because the ladies I work with are all really old,” Harry explains with a number of graceless gestures. 

Louis makes an incredulous face. “Are you _honestly telling me_ that you got all buff by lifting _flour_?! I’m calling bullshit, Harry Styles, absolute bullshit,” Louis hip-checks him again, he can’t help it, and Harry nearly falls over, buckling under the weight of his double baggage. He’s a fierce red, stifling a sheepish smile, and Louis is glad he’s not carrying his own shit anymore, otherwise he surely would have collapsed by now under the weight of witnessing so much rosy skin. He wonders if that flush goes all the way down Harry’s throat, if it spreads over his sternum, as low as the thud of his heart. If it would taste metallic under the sweep of his tongue. 

“Really, though, I don’t work out much, just playing soccer…sometimes I box with my step dad because he’s really into it, but nothing serious. It’s really just from helping old ladies with flour,” he reiterates, eyes sort of pleading, black with so much pupil. Louis feels helpless.

“That and, like…puberty, I guess,” Harry adds, and they both dissolve into laughter. Louis…Louis can do this. He can keep from fantasizing if he reminds himself that they're _friends_.

The next mile or so is spent walking beside Harry Styles and chatting casually, amicably, as friends do, about home, about school, about the old ladies at Harry’s bakery. Louis learns that Harry graduated high school a year early ( _not because m’ extra smart, but because I did classes at a community college and then took a test to graduate early, mostly because I hated high school, was absolutely terrible, so many fake and mean people, you know?_ ), that he has an older sister at UC Riverside who’s studying communications ( _don’t even know what communications are, honestly, she just complains about reading a lot and is, like, really interested in fashion, though, so, like, maybe reading and fashion and communicating?_ ), that he used to live in an apartment above a bar and would lie on his living floor to feel the jukebox vibrate when he couldn’t sleep at night, lulled to sleep by the humming buzz of Van Morrison and Billy Idol ( _’Brown-Eyed Girl’ still knocks me out, especially if it’s, like, a grainy recording, bleeding through a wall, almost Pavlovian?_ ). Louis feels ten times lighter just listening to him, and it’s not solely from the absence of his bag.

Louis loves hearing about Harry’s life, loves learning the mundane details; he loves the slow, methodical way Harry talks about them, with his brow furrowed and his hands cupping the air loosely in front of his chest sometimes, as if grasping for something invisible, just out of reach. It’s lovely, really, and now that Louis is unencumbered by his bag, he can look at Harry all he wants, standing upright and crossing his arms over his chest and giving him a good-natured hard time every time he says something weird (which is all the time). 

“And what about you? You’re in college, right, what’s your major? Are you studying horses?” Harry jokes, tonguing the corner of his improbably pink mouth. 

Louis rolls his eyes, side-stepping playfully along the trail to demonstrate how very _limber_ he is now that he isn’t carrying a giant fucking duffle bag. “I do _not_ study horses at school, as much as I want to. I hardly ride at all anymore, tragically. I used to all the time in high school because my mom’s boyfriend was a trainer at a barn down in the valley, but once they broke up, we couldn’t afford it…oh, god, that was the worst sob story ever, wasn’t it?” he claps a hand over his mouth, sort of horrified at himself for sounding so spoiled, so _rich_ , when he’s pretty sure that he’s not. “My daddy quit paying for my riding lessons, woe is me!” he mocks himself, swinging a hand through the air dramatically to feign swooning. “I bet you hate me now, I very nearly hate myself.”

“No, not at all, I’m just sorry you don’t get to major in horses,” Harry reassures him quickly, pouting in a very sympathetic and not at all facetious manner, which is very kind and not necessarily what Louis deserves. Louis wrinkles his nose at him, for he’s too sweet and too impossible and too weird to exist in this world. _Do something normal or boring so I can stop being obsessed with you_ , he wills the ether, shaking his head. 

“No, you have to pay to ride in college--at least, you do at the schools with actual equestrian teams. I’m at a state school, though, so we don’t even _have_ a team,” he explains, shrugging. “I only really get to ride when I’m up here, which is probably why I love it so much. Dunno. Anyway, I just declared my major this year, actually, huge relief. M’studying theater, want to eventually be a drama teacher. Or join an improv crew or something? We’ll see.” 

Harry positively beams at him, and Louis has to look away, lest he’s incinerated. “You’ll be great at that, either of those, really,” Harry tells him, very carefully ducking out of the shoulder straps of each of the bags he’s holding and depositing them on the ground because _somehow_ , somehow they already made it to the lookout point and water refill station. Louis’s kind of stunned by this turn of events: usually the hike goes so fucking _slowly_ , and they’re already more than halfway there. Harry and his meandering anecdotes are probably magical. 

“Already?!” he yelps, skipping up to the drinking fountain line behind some kids, clapping them on the shoulders. “How are we doing, guys, everyone remembering to hydrate?” he says cheerfully, grinning even as the kids look up at him miserably, red cheeked and sweat-streaked temples because the overnight hike isn’t _just_ brutal for Louis. 

The counselors wait patiently for all the campers to fill their water bottles before doing the same. Liam’s taking his sweet time and being absurd, showing some overachiever Boy Scout type with a fancy backpack how to clean out and refill a fucking CamelBak like it’s actually relevant to this child’s life or something. Louis, who has about two inches of warm, nasty water left in his canteen, gleefully upends it on Liam’s head from behind, thrilled by the way it takes him a few seconds to realize what’s happening before he’s slapping the back of his neck, mouth wide and affronted as he rounds on Louis. 

“I _knew_ it was you, you absolute menace,” he snaps, staring disappointedly at his CamelBak, which is _useless_ in a water fight, before turning the fountain on and just flinging a handful of water in Louis’s direction. Louis skitters away, having anticipated this move. He’s backpedaling when he literally, _physically_ runs into Harry, who steadies him, two broad palms on his biceps, and _fuck_ , that was an accident, he hadn't meant to—

“Here,” Harry offers, shoving his mostly full water bottle into Louis’s hand. “I conserved.” 

Louis is back on Liam in seconds, emptying the entirety of Harry’s water bottle on top of his head in a lukewarm cascade, cackling all the while. “C’mon, Payno, it feels good, right? You’re hot, we’re all absolutely baking, come on,” he laughs, darting away but not before Liam grabs his wrist, pulls him in, and shakes his hair out on him like a dog. It’s totally gross because aside from Harry’s water, it’s also _Liam’s sweat_ , and Louis certainly doesn’t want _that_ all over him. He shrieks, twisting away and ending up back with Harry, who he cowers behind because, well. Harry’s tall and broad and stuff. It has nothing at all to do with the fact that he’s magnetized to him like a bit of metal. “Save me,” he whimpers because Liam’s little Boy Scout friend has generously offered his water bottle to him, not to mention Zayn and Niall are teaming up with him, too, and that means _three separate boys_ armed with _three separate water vessels_ are all zeroing in on Louis. 

“I can’t!” Harry giggles, reaching behind himself and just _touching_ Louis, fingers idle and playful but still with enough contact to make Louis dizzy with an electric rush. “I gave _you_ my water. We’re unarmed.” 

Niall’s the first to get his assault in, uncapping his bottle and flinging its contents all over Harry and Louis, grinning manically all the while. The first spray hits Louis right in the _face_ , and his eyes suddenly sting as his sweat melts off and into them, and that is wholly unfair. He’s sputtering, nearly falling over as a _very wet Harry_ crashes into him, slippery skin and shoulders shaking with laughter, warm and slick and sunshiny. Louis gasps, feeling very _attacked_ from all angles, and before he even has time to recover from Niall’s initial blast, Zayn and fucking Liam are on him, double-teaming from the side like goddamned velociraptors. Louis doesn’t stand a chance. 

In seconds, he and Harry are absolutely, positively _drenched_. He’s just standing there, mouth hanging open and hair dripping down his neck, white Stone Roses shirt plastered to his torso like a semi-translucent, irritatingly heavy second skin. His nipples are hard, his breath is coming in short gasps, and Harry is staring at him, in a similar state of sopping wet shock. _His eyes are so fucking green, and I am so fucking cold_ , Louis thinks uselessly, rooted in place while he tries to catch his breath, Niall rolling around on the ground in front of him, absolutely _lost_ to hysterics, Zayn and Liam in a similar state of whooping, near-tearful laughter (though they’re at least _partially_ upright, doubled over but using one another as support, Zayn draped all over Liam like a mink stole or something). Louis would yell insults at them all, if he could remember how to talk. If he could do anything, save for blink helplessly, eyes fixed on Harry and his shining wet skin, dirty where the water has streaked through the dust clinging to him, leaving trails of gold. He should stop looking, but he can’t. 

“ _Boys_ ,” Killjoy Winston with his spaceship socks snaps, bustling up, about to blow his fucking whistle. Ben loves that fucking whistle. “What kind of example are you setting? We don’t need to have the campers starting water fights,” he says, crossing his arms, and in seconds Liam has shrugged his way out from under Zayn to do damage control. Liam _is_ good for that sort of thing, Louis will give him that. 

“Just trying to cool off. Louis was feeling dehydrated...was worried it could be heat stroke,” he improvises, looking strategically concerned, with that Liam Line through his forehead. 

Louis shakes his head, flinging water vindictively all over Niall, who’s still trying to recover from his bout of paralyzing laughter. Then he looks over to Harry, who’s slinking back to the fountains. He follows him, hoping to evacuate the scene before Ben gets on his case for, like, _faking heatstroke_ or whatever he’s going to think if he listens to Liam. 

Harry nods to him, wringing his fucking sleeveless flannel out like the rugged romance novel lumberjack hero of Louis’s dreams, hair all curly and messed up as it drips obscenely down the cords in his neck. Fuck. Louis would give so much to lick Harry Styles, even like this, covered in muddy streaks and hiking filth. He’s that embarrassing. 

Louis struggles out of his shirt and wrings it out, nose wrinkled up at how very _not white_ it has become in the aftermath of the water fight. “I don’t know _how_ , but I’m even _more_ dirty following that impromptu shower than I was before,” he grumbles, pulling his newly stained shirt back over his head. “Like, the dust clouds Niall kicked up are just… _clinging_ to me. I’m a mess.” 

Harry, who’s standing there dripping into his boots (not the hiking kind, by the way, but, like, _heeled_ Chelsea boots that he _insists_ are comfortable.; Louis doesn’t believe him, but they’re sort of sexy and very impractical, and Louis is realizing that impracticality is something he’s woefully attracted to now, thanks, Harry) shrugs, casting a quick glance his way. “I gave up on staying clean a long time ago. Sort of the fun of the overnight hike, right?” 

“You are literally the only one who thinks that,” Louis mumbles, shouldering his way past Harry to refill his water bottle for good this time. “I’m just so… _sticky_ ” 

Harry does a very horrible thing then. He makes a face, sort of scrunching his mouth up to the side like he’s contemplating something before tugging his soggy headscarf off and holding it under the water fountain. “You’ll feel less sticky if you, like…clean your creases. That’s where you get stickiest, where you stick together,” he explains, and Louis is certain he’s saying words and that they’re in English, but he cannot for the life of him string them together in any sensical fashion whatsoever. His _creases_? What on earth is Harry talking about? Why is it instilling a faint sense of panic in Louis? Why are his cheeks burning when it probably isn’t innuendo, when he’s just reading it that way because Harry’s mouth has him all fucked up and gutter-minded? 

“ _What_?” he asks, quietly but emphatically. 

Harry just says, “Here,” and takes Louis’s hand, extending his arm so that his elbow ditch is upturned. There’s a smudge of grit there, and Harry very, very carefully and sweetly wipes it up with his head scarf before dabbing it dry. Then he takes Louis’s other arm and does the same, brow furrowed in concentration as he touches Louis ever so gently, cleans his fucking creases, like it’s an acceptable and casual thing that people do. And Louis, Louis who’s trying his very hardest to rationalize every strange or excessive or confusing thing that Harry has ever done as being brotastic or homo-social because he can’t deal with the alternative, doesn’t know what to _do_ with such a gesture. It feels…intimate. Like Harry’s touching his heartbeat. His actual heartbeat is about to fucking kill him right now, somewhere between his throat and his ears, simultaneously choking and deafening him. 

“This’ll help, you’ll feel less sticky, I promise,” Harry explains, handing Louis his headscarf like a maiden in a fairytale bestowing her champion with a token of gratitude before he goes off to slay a dragon. Except Louis isn’t slaying any dragons, he’s standing there silently like an idiot while Ben Winston blows his whistle and everyone slowly starts meandering back to the trail. He should meander back to the trail as well, but instead he’s standing still, holding Harry’s headscarf, and wishing he could bury his face in it, even though it’s all wet. “You can, um, do the same to your knee creases. Behind your knees,” Harry clarifies, demonstrating with an imaginary headscarf of his own. “My room above the bar used to get insanely hot in the summer, like, heat travels up, I guess, so our loft would end up _baking_ , and I couldn’t sleep because I’d be all sweaty and sticky. Anyway, if I went to the bathroom and wiped my elbow pits and the backs of my knees off, I wouldn’t stick to myself, and I could sleep. It really does help.” 

Louis _should_ say, _Harry, you’re so fucking weird. You’re the weirdest boy I’ve ever met, unfathomably weird, and you can’t just go around telling boys to clean their creases without expecting some type of cosmic retribution or at least to be made fun of. You have to stop doing shit like this because I can’t do this much longer without you finding out how I feel_. Instead, Louis uses Harry’s headscarf to wipe the layer of sweat and grime from the backs of his knees, and says, “Thanks,” like this is just…fine. It’s _not_ fine, but whatever. 

Harry grins and leaves his headscarf in Louis’s custody, trotting off to go retrieve _both_ of their bags, which he shoulders easily. Louis watches, takes in Harry Styles and his baker’s biceps and his soaking-wet flannel with the sleeves cut off like some sort of medieval torture device carrying Louis’s bag like it’s nothing. 

_Harry, you’re so fucking weird_ , Louis thinks as he follows, chewing the inside of his lip self-deprecatingly. Then, _you’re also so fucking wonderful._

—-

They _finally_ make it to the actual campsite, and Ben immediately splits up cabin 14C, assigning Zayn and Louis to hotdog duty (a cruel punishment, as Louis is hopeless with a grill; he once very nearly burned his house down with his sisters’ Easy-Bake Oven), Liam and Niall to tarp-spreading/setup, and Harry to supervising the kids, who are all exhausted and nearing a critical meltdown zone. As Louis rips open packages of hotdogs and arranges them in neat rows on the campsite grill, nose wrinkled in faint disgust because uncooked hotdogs are vile, slippery things, he keeps stealing glances at Harry. He can’t help it; he’s too tired to fight his natural inclinations. “What are _you_ looking at?” Zayn asks, smiling crookedly at Louis while he uses a skewer to flip the hotdogs. 

Louis glares and flicks the brim of Zayn’s snapback. “You know very well what I’m looking at, don’t be _coy_ ,” he grumbles, eyes inevitably drawn back to Harry, who’s currently sitting on a sawed-off log with a small group of six-year-old girls climbing all over him. He’s picking them up one by one and flipping them upside down while they shriek and kick joyously, all strong and adept, so much so that Ben’s not even getting on his case for literally inverting children. Louis sighs. “He’s really good with the kids. They love him.” 

“Yeah, so do you,” Zayn snickers, making a face. “Are you…ever going to do anything about it? Or are you two just gonna keep flirting outrageously and never actually making a move? It’s getting painful to watch.” 

Louis drops a hotdog on the ground. “What?! We don’t flirt. I pine, and he’s charmingly clueless, that’s all,” Louis explains, frantically kicking the hotdog under a pile of pine needles and dirt so that Ben won’t come up and give him a hard time for wasting food. 

Zayn flattens his lips out and raises his eyebrows in a very condescending way. “Is that what you think is going on? Because from, like, an outsider’s perspective, it seems pretty mutual. And dude… _all_ the girls are in love with him, and he doesn’t even notice. The other day at lunch, when you stayed late in the barn to put Swat on Maxine’s leg? He was sitting with, like, Camilla and Jesy, and they were all _so_ desperate and all over him, and he had no clue. Or he didn’t care. And they were going _hard_ , touching his tattoos and asking about them and stuff.” 

Louis feels a little sick. “I don’t want to think about that,” he hisses to Zayn, thinking back to that afternoon in the barn, how he’d just been babying horses and hiding from Harry while Camilla was moving in for the kill.

“But you? He fucking carried your bag for, like, _five miles_ , Louis. He gets all red when he talks to you. You’re both _so obvious_ , please do something about it. I don’t get what your problem is, what you’re waiting on,” Zayn says, stabbing a hotdog violently and depositing it on top of the growing pile of thoroughly cooked ones. Louis cringes, feeling personally attacked, empathetically connected to this hotdog that Zayn is so savagely spearing. 

“I really think you’re misreading the situation,” he says, hands on his hips. “Like, there’s a possibility that Harry has some type of…platonic crush, like, he admires me because I’m older and a good counselor or whatever, but it’s not…I don’t know. I can’t just make a move. I have no idea how to. Anyway, I feel like he’s just really, _really_ friendly, and it doesn't _mean_ anything, and if I actually _did_ do something, he’d be…polite about it, sure, but also shocked. I think he acts flirty without meaning to or even realizing that he’s doing it. He’s just like that ” 

Zayn rolls his beautiful dark eyes. It would be swoon-worthy if Louis hadn’t grown up with him and lived through his awkward phases and built up an effortless immunity to how pretty he is. Or if he wasn’t being so _annoying_. “Louis…he’s not a _child_. You’re talking about him like he’s still sixteen. He’s not. He’s grown up now, and I _strongly doubt_ he’s as naive as you’re acting. You know what _I_ think?” he asks, eyes suddenly narrowing, getting hard and accusatory, and no, Louis really doesn’t want to know what Zayn thinks. But Zayn doesn’t wait for an answer, he just stabs another hotdog, dumps it onto the pile, and says, “ _I_ think you’re afraid. I think you _want_ to feel sorry for yourself and mope around all summer, and that you don't even _like_ Harry as much as you say you do. He’s just someone for you to endlessly complain about so you can play the victim and cry about how you’ll never have a boyfriend.” 

Louis’s mouth drops open. Suddenly, his heart is beating too hard, so hard he can’t catch up with it, can’t breathe or think of anything witty or biting enough to combat how much Zayn just…hurt him. Or something. He’s sputtering for another few seconds before he gets his voice back, cheeks hot, hands shaky. “Zayn,” he says quietly, throat thick. “That’s not…hmm. Just, fuck you. You’re so wrong you don’t even _know,_ ” he spits out, the hurt getting blacked out by the anger, the incredulity, because _honestly?!_ Zayn has no fucking idea, can’t possibly even begin to understand how _much_ he likes Harry, how amazing it feels to be close to him, how desperately he wishes he lived in some universe where things were easy and he wasn’t crippled by self-doubt and confusion, a place where he could _read_ Harry. How much time he spends daydreaming about what it would be like to _be_ with him…not just fuck him or hook up with him under the dock like all the other summer flings but to really _be_ with him. Hold his hand, wake up with him, meet his family, get in petty disagreements over shopping lists, end up laughing over the absurdity, have makeup sex against the shower wall. 

“What, then? How am I wrong?” Zayn challenges him, almost _smugly_ , and Louis has to bite his tongue to keep from cursing loud enough for the campers to hear. 

“I…did you ever think that _yes_ , yes, I’m afraid? But not afraid to actually _like_ someone but afraid _because_ I like him so much?” he asks fiercely but in a hush. “That’s why…why it’s so hard to even imagine doing anything about it. I _love_ hanging out with him, being his friend, and if I do make a move and it doesn’t work out or if things get weird, then…,” he cuts himself off, surprised by the sudden rush of heat to his eyes, the way his throat is getting thick. He swallows carefully, looking up at the slowly darkening dusk-grey sky to keep Zayn from seeing his face wobble like it does when he’s fighting tears. Luckily, Zayn says nothing while he gets a hold of himself. “Basically, I like him too much to risk anything that might make him not want to, like…sleep in the bunk under me anymore. Or be in our cabin. Okay? So give me a break,” he says, voice trembling only a little bit. “You’re a jerk,” he adds, just for good measure. 

Zayn is quiet for a long time before shrugging and letting out a measured sigh. “I’m sorry, Lou. I sort of knew that already, I was just…I don’t know. Wanted to force it out of you, which is, like, not cool.” 

“While we’re cooking hundreds of fucking hotdogs, and there are kids everywhere? Yeah, you could have picked a better time,” Louis jokes, wiping his hands on his cutoffs because they’re still sweaty, clammy, and cold. Talking about Harry makes him so nervous. 

“I know, and I said I was sorry,” Zayn says testily, patience and sympathy reserves already dried up, apparently. “Just, as your _friend_ , I wanted to let you know what it looks like, for me. And it looks like if you did something, made a move… it wouldn’t make things weird. I think you’d be pleasantly surprised.” 

“Well, I appreciate your advice, Zayn,” he scoffs, grabbing a hotdog from the finished pile and ripping a bite off it obscenely, chewing with his mouth open. “How are my wooing skills?” he asks. “Still think I have a chance?” 

Zayn isn’t amused. In fact, he might be disgusted. Still, he reaches out and ruffles Louis’s hair, making a mess of it. “Yeah, I do. Go get em’, tiger.” 

After dinner is announced and the kids line up to annihilate the hotdogs and bags of chip in a matter of minutes (it’s seriously like a hoard of locusts; Louis’s amazed how his hour of hard work culminated in six minutes of fevered consumption, and now everything is just _gone_ ), Zayn dismisses him from food preparation. “It’s honestly easier for me to set up the s’mores-making station _alone_ than it is for me to do it while you’re literally eating all the ingredients two seconds after I unpackage them,” he tells Louis, smacking his hand for the hundredth time as he tries to sneak a graham cracker. “Believe it or not.” 

Robbed of a job, Louis inevitably wanders back to Harry, who’s still draped in an entourage of little girls. They’re all pretending that he’s a horse, braiding bits of straw into his hair and brushing him with imaginary curry combs. Only minutes ago, they’d taken turns hopping onto his back while he jogged in a circle, neighing--now it’s cooldown time, apparently. Louis approaches, hands in his pockets. “Good job, girls, remembering to brush your fair steed after his workout. I’m glad you actually listen to me,” he says, wind suddenly knocked out of him as one of the girls stands up and launches herself at his chest in a fierce hug. 

“Louis!” she chips. “Harry is our horse.” 

“I see that,” Louis chokes out. 

“Oh, perfect, just the person we need!” Harry exclaims. “Louis’s a horse rider and also majoring in horses at college, so he’s basically an expert,” he explains, grabbing one of the girls and putting her on his knee to bounce her. “He can answer all the questions that I, a humble horse, don’t actually know the answers to.” He exchanges a private, sheepish grin with Louis then, silently pleading, _help me with these horse-crazy children_ , and the way his eyes twinkle helplessly makes Louis’s insides flip over. 

“We picked his hooves and everything,” the little girl on Harry’s knee says, grabbing his hand and unfurling his fingers from the palm so they’re splayed. “See?” 

“Very clean hooves, Harold, I’m impressed. What did you use as a hoof pick?” he asks the girl, who then plucks a pine needle off the ground and pokes under Harry’s index nail with it. He winces a little, and Louis snorts, amused. 

“Very innovative,” he tells her. “I also like what you’ve done with his mane,” he says, gesturing to the bits of straw tied into his hair. 

One of the girls tugs Louis down by his hand, so he’s sitting on the half-rotted log beside Harry. “We can do yours, too! See, his hair is _sort of_ long,” she suggests to her friends, combing her fingers through Louis’s fringe and poking her tongue out, eyes narrowed. 

For the next half-hour, Louis is a horse in the horse salon with Harry, sitting patiently while a bunch of little girls style him appropriately. It’s sort of soothing; they’re very prudent and gentle about the whole process. Plus it’s terrifically fun to giggle with Harry, exchanging glances with him while they get fawned over, making fun of each other for their respective “looks.” At some point, Louis’s main stylist, Naomi, glances between them critically, nose wrinkled up like she’s trying to figure something out, trying to assess their friendship, label it in a way that makes sense to a kid. “Are you two brothers?” she asks then, and Harry’s eyes get _so wide_ , spots of color blooming on his cheeks. 

“I dunno, Lou, are we brothers?” he asks, voice sort of high and strangled. He coughs then, averting his eyes. “Blood brothers or something?” 

It kind of hurts, actually, to hear Harry say it, even though Louis has been telling himself for the better part of the week that brotherly affection is, indeed, the type of affection Harry harbors for him. Still, there’s a sudden punch in his solar plexus, acute before it ebbs into a dull ache. “We’re not,” he tells Naomi because there are things he can’t lie about. “Just friends.” 

“Does Louis teach you how to ride horses? He teaches us,” she explains, frowning when she realizes Louis’s hair isn’t long enough to actually braid, too uneven and choppy and shaggy on top. She sighs, settling on sectioning his hair off into tiny ponytails instead. 

“M’actually afraid of horses,” Harry admits, looking down so his face is hidden in a cascade of curls with straw extensions. “You guys are much braver than I am, going down to the barn every day? It’s amazing.” 

“Horses aren’t scary,” Harry’s head stylist, Mabel, announces. “I can trot. Louis taught me how, you go bounce, bounce, bounce.” 

“No you don’t!” Louis scolds, making a face. “Remember, you don’t want to bounce in the trot, you wanna to keep your butt glued to the saddle, right?” 

“Right,” she sighs, then, privately to Harry, “it’s more fun when you bounce, though.” 

Louis rolls his eyes. “But you’re hurting the horses’ backs, and you don’t want to do that, right?” 

Harry looks up, head cocked and cheeks dimpled in the way they get when he’s trying to contain a smile but failing. _Don’t hide it, just smile at me_ , Louis thinks, blood icing over reflexively. _Love your smile so much_. “I like the way you talk about horses,” Harry tells him. “It’s very…I dunno. Like they’re people.” 

“They’re better than people,” Louis corrects him. 

“I’d like to see you ride sometime,” Harry says then, casually, as if it’s not the type of mortifying thing that goes _straight_ to Louis’s dick. 

Louis coughs, grateful Naomi is in front of him so that he can hide his newly flushed face behind her. As horrible as it is to fall victim to a rush of arousal when one is surrounded by children, it at least keeps the conversation light, gives Louis an excuse to not press on the things Harry says, to narrow his eyes and say, _you want to see me_ what, _Harry Styles?_ Instead, he recovers quickly, sounding not at all affected when he asks, “Why?! I feel like it would be boring for a normal person but terrifying for you, a horse-phobic person.” 

“Exposure therapy,” Harry quips, mouth twisting up at the corner. “Liam told me about it.” 

“Oh, I’m sure he did,” Louis answers. 

“Liam?! Did you know Liam once _touched coyote scat_ , right in front of us, with his _bare hands?_ It was disgusting,” Mabel says, sounding positively thrilled to share this info. Harry cracks up. 

“Oh, I’m sure he did,” Louis repeats. “Liam has a very special relationship with scat.” 

The girls dissolve into delighted giggles, thoroughly distracted as they double over. Harry and Louis are momentarily forgotten in favor of the hilarity of Liam’s scat expertise. “Your hair is fabulous,” Harry compliments, gesturing to Louis’s head full of miniature ponytails. “Very…’90s hip-hop or something.” 

Louis doesn’t want to talk about ‘90s hip-hop with a literal eighteen-year-old. He wants to know why Harry Styles wants to watch him ride a horse, how that particular situation would contribute to a theoretical exposure therapy session. He clears his throat and jumps right in. “So, do you actually want to see me ride? Or were you trying to seem cool in front of the little horse-crazy ladies?” he asks lightly.

“Of course, I actually want to,” Harry murmurs, eyes cast to the ground as he methodically digs a hole with a stick and pushes a bunch of pine needles/hoof picks into it. “Is that okay? I don’t know if it’s, like, weird, or if you’re shy about it or whatever…I just have never seen someone who loves horses so much ride one, and I’m curious, I want to see what you see in it or something.” Then he shrugs. “It’s weird, isn’t it?” 

Louis’s heart is pounding up in the tight part of his throat when he manages to say, “I don’t know. Not any weirder than anything else you say.” 

“So…can I? Like, on a day when we have a break at the same time? I know you’re usually down by the barn riding during your free time, so I could meet you down there,” Harry explains, filling in the hole he dug,, not looking at Louis. Like this is an embarrassing conversation to have, and it _is_ , for Louis, at least. _Are you two just gonna keep flirting outrageously_? he hears in Zayn’s voice, wondering if that’s what this is, if he’s so terrified by the idea of rejection that he can’t even consider the possibility that this isn’t one-sided. 

“Yeah, you can,” Louis says. Then, bravely, “It’s a date, Harold.” 

Harry looks up then, eyes bright as he beams. “Awesome,” he says. 

It’s not until _after_ s’mores, kum ba yah, and a round of ghost stories that Louis’s heart slows down, that he stops shooting elated, stupid grins at his own feet. 

—

Senior counselors take hour-long patrols over night, to ensure that no intrepid raccoons get into the trash bags and to prevent the more obnoxious kids from smearing sunscreen on anyone’s face while they sleep. Nothing ever really happens, though, and it’s mind-numbingly boring, but Louis eagerly volunteers to take the second hour. It’s ideal because the kids aren’t wily or restless like they are during the first hour--they’ve settled down properly--but it’s still early enough that he can get it over with before attempting to get a _little_ sleep of his own for the rest of the night. 

He’s sets up his sleeping bag strategically between Liam and Zayn, but Zayn is a horrible person, and after he finishes the first watch, he _commanders Louis’s sleeping bag_ while Louis is on _his_ watch, so that _he’s_ next to Liam. This forces Louis to take _Zayn’s_ sleeping bag next to Harry, unless he wants to squeeze into his own sleeping bag with Zayn, and he obviously doesn’t. He notices this unfortunate turn of events halfway through his watch and clambers over, tugging on a strand of inky black hair until Zayn starts awake, eyes narrowed. “What are you doing?” Louis snaps. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice?” 

Zayn makes a face, eyes all bleary and unfocused. “M’sleeping bag is shitty. Cold. Flannel. You and Li have the nice ones, and I was freezing,” he explains. It’s actually not much of an explanation, but he’s already nodding off again. Zayn’s an impressive sleeper and clearly not afraid carpenter ants. 

“ _Yeah_ , but I’m cold now, and when I come back after my watch, I’m stuck with your fucking cheap-ass sleeping bag,” he whispers, jabbing Zayn’s cheek with his index finger. “M’gonna freeze.” 

Zayn bats him away and settles closer to Liam. “Or you could cuddle with Harry,” he murmurs, waggling his eyebrows. 

“You shut your mouth, Malik,” Louis snaps, wrapping his arms around himself and shivering. The temperature is dropping rapidly, and he’s _already_ goose-pimpled. Some kid-chatter to his left makes him sit bolt-upright, shifting back to his watch station so he can shine a flashlight over the mass of sleeping campers. “Oi, quiet everyone,” he orders, listening hard to the steady chirrup of crickets, the occasional crackle of something out in the woods. He’s not freaked out or anything, but the woods do sound much scarier when you’re alone and you can’t see anything but blackness stretching out on either side of you. He sighs, wishing he could check how much time is left on his patrol. 

He hears a rustling to his right, and he’s about to tell the kids to keep quiet again when he realizes it’s Harry sitting up in his sleeping bag, picking bits of straw from his hair. Louis’s whole body softens up in response, and he’s grateful it’s so dark, that Harry can’t make out the way he looks at him. He suspects it would be telling. “Styles,” he whispers, “go back to sleep.” 

“I can’t,” Harry murmurs, voice low and sticky and lovely. “There’s so much hay in my hair still. It’s prickly.” 

“Straw, actually,” Louis tells him. “Hay is what horses eat.” 

Harry yawns. “Can I sit up with you?” 

“Yeah,” Louis says, heart picking up in his chest. “Warning, though, it’s fucking freezing out here.” 

“Don’t mind,” Harry answers, wrapping his sleeping bag around his shoulders and scooting on his butt toward Louis, until he’s right beside him, radiating a magnetic, perfect heat. Louis can _smell_ him, his hiking sweat and campfire smoke and sleep-breath and charred sugar from burnt marshmallows. He smells dirty and young and raw and electric, and Louis shivers, he wants to kiss him _so badly_ , make a fist in his stupid sleeveless plaid and push him out on his back, ruck open the first few buttons and mouth wetly down over his heartbeat before licking back up to his lips, such a pretty shape in the night. Chapped and soft and untroubled.

They sit side by side, listening to the cicada song, the chilly night breeze pushing itself through trees. _I’m falling in love with you,_ Louis thinks, watching Harry’s hands worry at the zipper of his sleeping bag. It’s stupid because it’s a lie. He’s already in love with Harry; he knows this. It’s why his chest hurts when they sit this close, why he’s made of idle, longing dreams now, stomach ever plummeting. A chill washes over his body, and his teeth start to chatter. 

“Don’t you have a hoodie?” Harry asks, leaning a little closer. Louis shifts to move away, he _has_ to; Harry is dizzying. He’s exhausted and it’s late and everything feels confusing, like they’re alone when they aren’t, like it’s too dark for him to remember what he’s supposed to do, how he’s supposed to act. 

“No,” he whispers. “Remember, I packed light. It was so hot earlier, I didn’t think I’d need it.” 

Harry extends an arm, making room for Louis right beside him in his sleeping bag. Louis lets himself imagine, just for a moment, being pressed up against Harry’s ribcage. Face turned in toward his underarm, where the hair is matted down with grit and dried sweat, where he probably smells so ripe and spicy and human and dirty in the best way. His mouth waters, suddenly filled with an unexpected and sudden rush of saliva. “You can…over here. If you’re cold,” Harry tells him. 

“It’s okay,” Louis says quickly, shaking his head, not able to handle this, not able to imagine being so close to Harry when he’s all gross and covered in this layer of dried sweat and dirt, when he’s nothing but a frantic heartbeat, tremulous hands, want and want and want. He’s so fucking obvious, and Harry will know in a _second_ , know how badly he craves him, how hard it is for him to share space without dissolving. “You keep it for yourself, stay warm,” he says, searching for Harry’s face in the dark, even though he can’t make out anything save for a vague shape in the shadows. No expression, just the silhouette of Harry’s hair, backlit in moonlight. 

“No…just. I won’t do anything,” Harry says thickly, and Louis has no idea what that fucking _means_ , what he could…his heart is _pounding_ , so hard he can’t hear himself think, so hard his ribcage is aching. “Please. I can _see_ you shivering,” Harry says, and then he’s scooting even closer, situating himself so he’s facing Louis. They’re both cross-legged, and he’s close enough that their knees are notching together, close enough that he can cocoon both their bodies in his sleeping bag. 

Louis’s heart flatlines. He’s fucking _dying_ , all he can do is force out a choppy _thank you_ as Harry settles in tentatively, close enough that Louis can feel his _breath_ on his shoulder, hot and humid, his body like a fucking furnace against him. Louis holds his own breath, skin prickling under Harry’s, hypertuned to everything he does. _I’m falling in love with you_ , he lies to himself again, eyes scrunched up tightly, so he doesn’t have to see Harry’s hair in his peripheral vision. 

He reaches to scratch an itch, he _has_ to or he’s gonna fall apart, and as soon as he does, his fingers bump against Harry’s leg, making Harry flinch in response. “Oh, shit, your hands are like ice, lemme,” Harry murmurs, every word a gust of heat against Louis’s neck, and _fuck_ , fuck, fuck, he’s gonna get hard from the sweetness and sleep on Harry’s breath, he’s gonna fucking pass out. 

His teeth are still chattering as he manages to grind out, “That’s generally what happens when you’re slowly freezing to death and your best friend steals your sleeping bag.” Then, sharply and too loud, “What are you doing?!” because Harry, _fucking Harry_ , is feeling for Louis’s hands in the dark, in between the folds of his sleeping bag. 

“Here, let me,” Harry whispers, voice so low and so _easy_ , scraping at something hot and deep and vulnerable inside of Louis. And he can’t…he can’t say _no_ , he can’t protest at all, really, when Harry Styles is saying _let me_ and taking his hand so gently, fingers callous-rough and gentle all at once, palms so much bigger than Louis’s as they enfold him. “S’not weird,” Harry assures him, even though it _most definitely is, it absolutely is_ , who the fuck is he kidding?! “You’re cold,” he says, like Louis _forgot_ , drawing his icy hands into his lap, up to his _fucking stomach_ , where he splays them, thankfully over his shirt, but _still_ , what the _fuck._

Louis can’t say or do anything because he’s fucking _panicking_. Harry is warm and solid under his hands, just like he _knew_ he would be, and he’s not…he’s not cut out to deal with this. He can’t touch Harry’s _fucking abs_ through a layer of threadbare cotton and not get _turned on_ , he can’t slow his heart down, he can’t relax. Relaxing against Harry would feel too good, hurt too much, and Louis is too weakened by exhaustion to fake his way through this. 

His fingers flex involuntarily, and he lets out a strangled breath. “Sorry,” he mumbles, hanging his head. Then, in a vain yet valiant effort to break the tension, he asks, “Is this, like…one of your secrets? Like crease cleaning? Using your own body heat to thaw frozen people?” 

Harry’s muscles leap under his fingers as he laughs breathily, his body so fucking lithe and hard and _hot, god_ , Louis is _embarrassingly_ hard from this, like a fucking teenager. “Yeah. M’full of, like, home remedies and stuff,” Harry explains. “I’ll make a really good housewife one day.” 

_Fuck_. This isn’t fair, and Louis has to actually, physically bite back an involuntary sound. He’s starting to warm up, moving rapidly from too cold to too warm, sweat springing to his temples, his underarms. He turns his head, nose brushing against Harry’s cheek accidentally, and it must be icy, too, because Harry makes a small, concerned noise in the back of his throat before nodding closer, pressing his face into Louis’s, his skin warm and stubble-rough but still relatively smooth for a boy, sweat-tacky and soft, and Louis can’t breathe, he’s going to kiss him, he’s going to turn and bite his perfect mouth, punish him for being so irresistible, for being too close. _You’re killing me_ , he thinks frantically, nuzzling up into his cheekbone, wondering how the fuck this is happening. _I’m in love with you._

“Sorry,” Harry murmurs before pulling away. “My sister and I used to snuggle like this when our radiator was broken, and I’d always warm my toes up on her legs. I’m not trying…I dunno. I’m not trying…,” he trails off quietly, and Louis’s stomach sinks horribly, leaving him feeling blanched, empty, broken. _Blood brothers_ , he remembers, Harry looking at him searchingly earlier tonight, asking, _Are we brothers?_

Louis feels…fucking stupid. Stupid and confused and jerked around, injured in this deep, untouchable way that he can’t articulate. He doesn’t know what this _means_ , can’t really imagine doing this with Liam or Zayn. He keeps trying to, though, imagining Zayn scoffing at his cold hands and rubbing them between his own like kindling to try and warm him up, scolding him for not bring a hoodie in the first place. He tries to imagine Liam explaining how body heat is the best way to warm back up when you’re hypothermic, tries to imagine him grabbing his hands and shoving them up his shirt, before realizing he would never _let_ Liam do something like that, would never end up like this, neck deep. 

Even the wildest reenactments he comes up with aren’t like _this_. If they’re plausible, they aren’t loaded with tension, if they’re loaded with tension, they aren’t plausible. But he doesn’t know where it’s coming from, if it’s solely him and his longing that’s making this weird, or if _Harry_ is crossing a line, pushing too far. Louis doesn’t _know_ ; he feels blinded by want and too afraid to ask, to pull away. He thinks about tilting his face up and closing those crackling inches between them, catching Harry’s soft, perfect mouth and dipping his tongue inside to taste his heat. He can imagine Harry kissing back, but is that because he _wants_ it so badly? He can imagine Harry pulling away just as easily, lips parted in surprise, eyes wide and stunned and apologetic, feeling awful for creating a situation for Louis to misread.

Louis shakes his head, thinking, _this has to stop, you have to get a grip on yourself; if he liked you he would have already done something because you’re so fucking obvious._

But still, he stays, sharing breath with Harry Styles until his night watch ends, and they both crawl back to their sleeping bags, shivering until they settle in side by side, under the same stretch of nylon, under the same sheet of black and stars.


	5. Chapter 5

When Louis wakes up, his whole body hurts. What’s even more troublesome, however, is that as he blinks himself to a hazy awareness in the cold grey light of dawn, aching all over, he realizes with a chilling horror that he’s _pressed to Harry’s back_ , arm resting along his side, nose tucked into the oily curls at the column of his neck. 

He freezes before he moves too much; he doesn’t want to wake Harry up, doesn’t want to be caught in this horribly incriminating position. He just lies there for a moment, inhaling shakily, self-deprecatingly basking while he tries to figure out what to do, letting himself feel what it would be like to _wake up_ with Harry Styles in his arms. To breathe from his skin, press kisses down between his scapulae, and spread his palm over his heartbeat while they’re both still syrupy and slow with sleep, murmur _morning, baby_ into his ear, pull him closer. _God_. It would be so good, so fucking good, and even this--Harry snoring lightly against him while he lies on top of a mess of sticks and rocks and whatever else is poking his back under the tarp--is fucking amazing. Harry is so _warm_ , his bare legs faintly sticky and very hot where they’re half-tangled with Louis’s, and Louis realizes with a sharp, distantly panicked pang in his chest that they’re very…entwined. Too entwined for him to disentangle himself without waking Harry up, so he just _stays there_ , curled up around him, lips brushing his spine like a whispered secret. 

_I don’t know what to do_ , he thinks, his temporary, sleep-hazy excuse for why he hasn’t moved away. _I guess I’ll just have to die here._

He’s not sure how much time passes before the 6 a.m. alarm goes off and the counselors start stirring awake, but it’s entirely too long for Louis to be casually spooning the boy he’s unrequitedly in love with in his sleep. He’s almost nodding off again in the contagious heat of Harry’s body when he hears the beep of the alarm, and they both flinch. “Sorry!” he says groggily, remembering with a sudden rush of anxiety that he was supposed to pull away a long time ago; he was supposed to _avoid_ waking up in this exact position, and now here he is, guilty as fuck. 

“What?! No, don’t go, you’re warm,” Harry answers hoarsely, reaching behind his back and grabbing for Louis’s wrist, which he encircles in a loose grip and pulls around his torso so Louis’s arm is draped over his ribcage. 

“Fuck,” Louis says aloud, pushing his face into Harry’s hair, cock twitching, more than just morning-hard as he inhales Harry’s smell, totally, totally fucked. He can’t do this, he can’t. Harry is soft and pliant and doesn’t seem to _care_ that they’re tangled up like this, that Louis has been smelling him and cuddling him for who knows how long, getting away with things he shouldn’t be getting away with. “I didn’t mean to, was asleep,” Louis says anyway, defending himself against some unspoken accusation.. He at least manages to cant his hips away from Harry’s ass, as that would _surely_ give him away, surely shatter the weird guise of _keeping each other warm_ they’ve been playing with all night. 

“S’fine,” Harry murmurs, letting go of Louis’s wrist and rubbing his face with his palms. “God, my back is killing me. I never usually sleep on the overnight hike, it’s, like…somehow worse to sleep. My arm is numb.” 

“Me, too,” Louis chokes out, relieved when Harry stretches his legs, untwining them from Louis’s so he can actually roll away, onto his back, without creating friction. He covers his face with his hands, willing his erection to go away, squinting in the sudden light now that he’s not buried in Harry’s hair, Harry’s sleeping bag. Everything is cold and grey and hard-edged, the air smelling sharp with pine, the ash of the long-dead fire. The fresh, outdoorsy scent hurts his head, too clean for him to process right now; he pitifully wants Harry back, his skin and his sweat and his breath. “Ugh,” he mumbles, because what else is there to say when you have a pinecone digging into your back and your throat is sore and you’re terribly in love with someone who thinks it’s okay to just _platonically cuddle_ , or some shit. “I feel terrible,” he announces to the morning. 

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, sitting up and stretching. “That was, like…not the most amazing sleep of my life, but it was nicer with you there. I would have frozen without you,” he adds, turning to look over his shoulder and smile at Louis blearily, crookedly. 

Louis feels his heart break in his fucking chest. He tries to return the smile, but it comes out more of a grimace, forced and clipped. “Yeah,” he says awkwardly, sitting up and wincing at the tightness in his neck, shoulders. “Thanks for, um, letting me use your sleeping bag. Zayn stole mine, and his sucks…,” he trails off, coughing because there’s a terrible tickle in his windpipe, and he feels sort of sick because he’s going on and on about something that doesn’t even matter. Plus, Harry is kicking out from under his sleeping bag and tugging his jeans back up his legs, and Louis _knows_ putting clothes _on_ isn’t supposed to be sexy or anything, but it is when Harry does it, so. He looks away, eyes stinging, cheeks hot. He needs to get back to 14C, he needs to get coffee in his system, he needs to brush his teeth, he needs a full and real night of _sleep_. He can’t be trusted right now, not when he's exhausted and sore and his boner won't go away because Harry Styles is putting his pants back _on_. He’s a mess. 

Everyone is grumpy and quiet as they roll their sleeping bags and pack their things and otherwise break down the campsite, but a few younger kids are crying from utter exhaustion so Harry meanders off to distribute hugs and jokes and morale because he’s good at that type of thing. The best boy, unbearably sweet, and Louis’s almost on the fucking verge of tears about it and everything else when Zayn sidles up beside him, voice low as he asks, “Soooo, how did it go last night? I set you up, and I saw you guys hanging during your patrol…did it happen?!” he waggles his eyebrows, and Louis wants to fucking _hit him_. 

“ _Will you quit_?” he hisses, jabbing Zayn none too gently in the ribs with the point of his elbow. “Quit trying to help. It just stresses me out and puts me in uncomfortable positions, and if I’m going to do anything about this, I’ll do it on my own time, okay? Otherwise, I need you to fuck off, Zayn,” he snaps, eyes narrowed. 

Zayn, who’s often quiet but rarely silenced, stares at him for a minute, a defensive line through his brow and jaw set tight. Louis thinks he’s about to get his ass handed to him, that Zayn is about to call him out for getting on his case when he’s only trying to help, but instead he cocks his head, and his expression melts into concern. “Did…what happened last night? Did you get, like…turned down?” 

“No!” Louis tries to snap, tries to roll his eyes, but his throat is stuck around something so he chokes it out instead, and his eyes get stuck gazing defiantly skyward. “I don’t know,” he adds then, because Zayn is his best friend, and he _does_ want his advice, his support. Even if he doesn’t want his aggressive, invasive not-helpful form of help. 

“You don’t know? What do you mean?” Zayn asks, but Ben is approaching, whistle in his mouth, poised to blow if he needs to. 

“Boys, we need to be out of here in ten minutes, so do a final sweep and pick up the rear of the herd. We’ve got some tired kids, so there are going to be stragglers,” he says around the mouth of his beloved whistle, and Zayn and Louis mumble out a collective _yes, sir_ before they get a chance to resume their conversation, this time more privately as the caboose of the hiking train. 

“So...did you kiss him?” Zayn asks, brows drawn up into elegant arches, eyes wide and expectant and sort of conspiratorial, even though there’s nothing to conspire about, nothing but confusion and mixed signals and Louis’s half-broken heart. 

“No,” Louis says miserably. “I thought about it, though. Came so, _so_ close. Zayn…fuck. I don’t know, I don’t know what he wants….like, he’ll get really physical, close and flirty in this way that makes me think maybe you’re right about everything, and I really am just being stupid…but then he’ll just pull away. Say shit that _clearly_ gives the impression he’s not interested. I don’t know. I’m dying, though, he’s killing me, like, last night was one of the most sexually frustrating nights of my entire fucking _life_.” Loui’s heart is pounding by the end of his tirade, chest tight and achey with how much he’s _feeling_ , how fucking _tired_ he is. 

“What type of stuff does he say?” Zayn asks carefully. 

“Like…fuck. He deflects stuff? Okay, like, for example, last night, he was _touching my hands_ , can you fucking believe this, and then he was, like, ‘by the way, this is nothing weird, my sister and I used to do it,’ and I’m, like…okay??? So you think of me like a fucking sister? Uggghhhh, Zayn, I don’t know, it’s terrible.” 

Zayn actually fucking _laughs at him_ , and Louis’s really offended because he’s, like, _opening up_ and stuff, not to mention he could _actually fucking cry about this_ if he let himself. His eyes are prickling, there’s a perpetual lump in his throat, and his solar plexus is heavy with aimless yearning, with overwhelm. “Don’t _laugh_ ,” he chokes out, rubbing his face with his hands before pushing his aviators defensively down from the top of his head to hide his nose to hide his eyes. “I’m truly on my death bed.” 

“I’m sorry, it’s just that…you said he said stuff that _clearly_ meant he wasn’t interested, and that…what you just told me anyway, isn’t clear at all? Sounds like the shit you say around guys you’re into when you’re worried they’re creeped out by you. Like…Louis. He’s eighteen. He’s probably scared, too,” Zayn offers, looking at Louis quizzically like he’s crazy for not having thought of this first. He holds his arms out, quirking an eyebrow, and Louis is the one who’s silenced, now. 

Zayn….Zayn is probably right. Which is annoying because he’s _usually_ right, and Louis doesn’t like admitting that. On the other hand, he _desperately_ wants to be wrong about Harry, wants him to be scared, too. So it isn’t just him who has no idea what to do, who’s floundering in confusion. “So…,” he starts, chewing the inside of his cheek, “you think I still have a chance? You don’t think he…only likes me as a sister?” 

Zayn cracks up, shaking his head. “I don’t think it’s a chance, I think it’s a for sure sort of thing, actually. But, yeah, Louis, you’ve got a chance. I strongly doubt Harry only likes you as a sister.” 

“Okay,” Louis sighs, inhaling shakily. “I’m not…I’m not gonna let it go then. I’ll try something, eventually. But Zayn,” he looks at him sternly, eyes narrowed to slits, hands on his hips. “ _Please_. You’ve _got_ to stop trying to set us up…like, I know you and Li have good intentions and are just trying to help me out, but it’s _not_ gonna make me move any faster, so you need to back off. Promise me?” 

Zayn sighs, as if he thinks he’s a great matchmaker, his attempts aren’t at all annoying, and Louis should actually be grateful. Still, after a moment he turns back to Louis and vows, “I promise, if _you_ promise me you’ll quit being fucking ridiculous and _eventually_ kiss Styles. If you do that, I’ll quit trying to lock you in a closet together, okay?” Zayn says, crossing his chest. “Promise.” 

“Okay, deal. No closets.” Louis murmurs, hooking his arm with Zayn’s and bringing him close enough to hug half-heartedly, nuzzling into his hair and inhaling gratefully. He’s no Harry, and he doesn’t smell 1/16th as good, as comforting, or as magical, but he’s Louis’s best friend, so he’ll do. “Thanks, Zayn,” Louis sighs. 

“You’ve got it,” Zayn tells him. 

—-

Louis is still suffering the soul-sucking effects of the overnight hike by Sunday, but at least Sundays at camp are lower pressure, less structured. He can almost relax. Instead of the kids rotating from activity to activity, there’s supervised free time or camp-wide games, so Louis doesn’t have to teach riding lessons, he just has to act as referee for volleyball or take a canoe out on the lake and make sure no kids drown _Friday the 13th_ style. The mornings start later, too, so he actually gets to _sleep in_ and catch up after that horrible night he would have spent freezing to death if he hadn’t spent it spooning Harry Fucking Styles. 

He’s currently playing capture the flag with Harry Fucking Styles and Harry Fucking Styles’s Miniature Adidas Shorts of Doom. These shorts are only _slightly_ less obscene than the yellow ones because _black_ nylon does substantially more in the junk-disguising department, but _still_. It’s a lot of leg, and Harry’s all sweaty and hyper and goofy today, his hair held back in a stretchy black headband as he runs barefoot around the field like a madman, pirouetting and doing ballet leaps in the air more than he’s actually tagging people or capturing any flags, but he has Louis’s attention, at least. Not that he has to work very hard for that. 

Louis’s usually very good at capture the flag; he goads and distracts people at the turf divide so the sneaky, fast kids on his team can bolt across the field and grab the flag. He’s clumsy and slow-witted today, though, and it’s not _just_ from sleep deprivation or being over worked. It’s Harry’s thighs, Harry’s dopey smile, Harry’s explosive laugh, Harry’s idiot dance moves. Louis just wants to lie in the grass with his head in Zayn’s lap and _watch_ him, study and take notes on how someone can look so very much like a baby giraffe, yet be so sexy at the _same time_. It’s unfair. 

Louis deliberately makes a failed attempt at running across the field, and a stout, chubby little boy with a red baseball cap tags him out so hard he falls on his ass. “Hey!” he yelps, spreading out on the grass dramatically, mud on his shorts. “You fatally injured me, you’re gonna have to carry me back now, Peter,” Louis scolds, pretending to spasm in near-death throes. “Quick! My days are numbered. I’m fading fast.” 

“Sorry,” Peter says breathlessly, hands on his knees. “You’re too heavy,” he shrugs before sprinting off to help his friends, and this leaves Louis to slowly, pitifully drag himself to the line that the rest of his jailed teammates have formed. He sits down next to Niall, sighing and brushing dirt and grass from his shins. 

“You okay? That kid is like a tank. I saw him mow you down,” Niall chuckles, gently elbowing Louis in the side. 

“I’ll survive,” Louis sighs, pillowing his head on Niall’s shoulder, and he isn’t Zayn, but he doesn’t _see_ Zayn anywhere, so Niall has to be his pillow instead. “I’m still so wrecked from the overnight,” he complains. “If they don’t jailbreak us soon, I’m gonna pass out here.” 

“We have more than enough counselors out, so go back to 14C and take a nap! Zayn and Li already escaped, probably raiding the freezer down at the mess hall. Rumor has it there’s a box of expired Fudgsicles.” 

“Expired Fudgsicles,” Louis says lightly, raising his eyebrows at Niall, who will eat nearly _anything_ , even at the expense of his own health. “Sounds appetizing.” 

“I know it doesn’t mean much coming from me,” Niall says, widening his eyes innocently, “but I don’t think they’re _bad_ , just _expired_. Like, yesterday. Perfectly good Fudgsicles, but they can’t serve them to the kids for, like, legal reasons or something, so they’re unofficially up for grabs,” he waggles his eyebrows almost suggestively, which is a terrible way to waggle one’s eyebrows, given the subject at hand. “Hey, look, we scored!” 

Louis’s gaze cuts back to the field, where Harry is doing a spectacular victory lap with a little kid on his back who apparently just stole the flag. “Red team!” Louis screams, whooping and punching the air with his fist, just as Harry spots him and Niall and makes a beeline straight for them. He high fives his way down the row, squeezing Louis’s hand and beaming at him right as they touch. Louis’s cheeks flush, and his insides flip over unpleasantly. He’s so fucking gone, it's embarrassing, hiding his face in his knees as Harry jogs away so that Niall doesn’t see how red he is. “So,” he murmurs, taking a deep breath. “You think the cabin is unoccupied? Li and Zayn are poisoning themselves with rotten ice cream at the mess hall?” 

“Yeah, that’s what they said,” Niall shrugs. “Harry and I will cover the red team if you wanna go nap. In fact, we won’t just cover the red team, we’ll _carry the red team into the arms of victory in a blaze of glory_ he assures Louis very seriously, eyes narrowed, finger pointed. 

“Good man,” Louis says, clapping him on the back and clambering to his feet. “Don’t let me or the red team down, Nialler,” he shoots over his shoulder as he departs, sliding down the hill in his Vans, stumbling a little as he makes it to the gravel pathway that leads back to the cabins. He’s relieved to be off the hook; aside from the bone-deep exhaustion settling in somewhere above his solar plexus, he's also mildly, annoyingly turned on, like, _all the time_. The inevitable side effect of having to watch Harry traipse around in those itty-bitty shorts, back so sweaty his white V-neck is clinging to him, semi-translucent. Yeah, Louis wants to nap. But he also _desperately_ wants to jack off. 

It’s been, like, way too long. He never has any fucking privacy in 14C, and last summer he used to do it in the showers, late at night when he could sneak off alone well after dinner and campfire, but now he goes down to the showers with Harry in the morning, and it’s sort of uncool to get off when the object of your fantasies is one plastic shower curtain away from you. Louis is terribly pent up; it’s why he’s so fucking frustrated all the time, why he gets hard at the most minuscule, most embarrassing fucking things. Harry’s Miniature Adidas Shorts of Doom, for example. Louis, or at least a regularly jacked-off Louis, is _better than that_. 

Louis is sort of allowing himself to indulge his fantasies a little bit as he makes his way back to the cabin. He’s gonna rub one out anyway, so he might as well give into the absolute avalanche of sensory memories he has stored in his brain. Harry standing on the dock with his hands on his hips, lake water coursing down his strong, golden back in rivulets, his skin shining under the burn of the sun. Harry bending over to haul picnic tables into the shade outside the mess hall, biceps flexing, tongue out as he makes faces at Niall to get him to laugh. _Harry’s_ fucking laugh, the white sharp flash of his teeth, his dimples. The peachy insides of his thighs, a soft dusting of hair making him soft, kissable, bruisable. The way he doesn’t give a fuck about anyone seeing him naked, ever, standing in the middle of 14C chatting with Liam while he half-assedly drapes a towel around his waist, happy trail still glittering with droplets of shower water warmed by his body heat. The smell of his hike-sweat clinging to his hair, his flannel, his neck. The topmost knob of his spine hard and warm and bony against Louis’s lips while he half-slept, wondering if he was gonna wake up, if this was all a dream. Just…Harry, Harry, Harry, Harry in endless configurations, Harry and his stupid puns, his long legs, the tattoos inked on his collarbones, map-markings showing Louis where to kiss.

He’s chubbed up in his sweats by the time he makes it back to 14C, palming himself discreetly as he fumbles with the lock. And…maybe it’s his own fault for not listening very carefully, for being so wrapped up in the promise of release that he just isn’t paying attention, but as Louis barges into the cabin, he doesn’t hear the sound of muffled voices, of wet sliding, of people frantically pulling apart. He doesn’t even hear the sound of a bunkbed whining plaintively under shifting weight. He shoulders his way in, sighing in relief as he locks the door behind him and starts across the room to his bed. 

It’s not until he sees a _very red-faced Liam_ appear over the edge of _Zayn’s_ bunk that he realizes he’s not alone. And even then, he doesn’t immediately piece together what’s happening, why Liam is sputtering clumsy apologies, why his _shirt_ is off, until _Zayn Malik_ pops up beside him, eyes wide and guilty, hair a fucking wreck. 

It’s in that precise moment that Louis decides he is never, ever masturbating again. “Oh, my _god!_ ” he screams, covering his mouth with his hands and staring in utter shock at the atrocity before him, his _best fucking friend_ rolling around with _Survivorman_ , a guy who _touches scat with his bare hands_. Louis…Louis could kill them both, he’s _deeply betrayed_ , he wants to bolt out of this room so quickly and forget he ever saw what he just saw, but he can’t make his legs move. All he can do is stand in the center of the room, gasping, mouth opening and closing wordlessly like a dying trout. “Were you two…are you… _oh, my god_ ,” he wheezes, vision almost whiting out with a sudden, alarming wave of dizziness. This is it, this is the end. Louis’s life is flashing before his fucking eyes, at the same time those eyes are unfortunately glued unblinking to Liam’s _fucking chest_ , all cut and toned and _sweaty_ because he was probably exerting himself _fucking Zayn_ , and Louis has never wanted to unsee something so badly in his entire life. 

“Louis…Louis, _wait_ , it’s not what…fuck,” Zayn pleads, kicking out from his sleeping bag and pushing past Liam to clumsily scale down the ladder of his bunk. 

Louis remembers how to move and immediately backs away, narrowing his eyes at Zayn in horror. “Don’t touch me with your betraying Judas hands!” he yelps, stumbling toward the door. “I _cannot believe_ you’d do this to me!” 

Zayn rolls his eyes, jaw set tight. He at least has his shorts on still, which is _excellent_ because it means they probably weren’t _actually_ fucking. “Contrary to whatever you seem to believe, Louis, this has nothing to do with you. My life doesn’t fucking revolve around you and your fucking problems!” Zayn yells at him, and Zayn rarely raises his voice, so it kind of scares Louis, shuts him up long enough for Liam to quietly interject. 

“Should I leave…?” he asks tentatively, pointing at the door. 

“Yeah,” Zayn sighs, rubbing his temples and staring coldly at Louis, like he’s a child who disappointed him or something. “I’ll catch up with you.” 

“Okay…um, sorry, Louis,” Liam mumbles as he guiltily lets himself out of 14C, still shirtless and plump-mouthed and what… _what the fucking fuck is going on here?!_

“Don’t apologize to him, we didn’t do anything wrong,” Zayn snaps, and then, once Liam is officially gone, “What the _fuck_ is your problem?” 

“What is _my_ problem? What is _your problem_??!! You’re _hooking up with Liam!_ ” Louis shrieks, throwing his arms in the air because _seriously_ , how _dare_ Zayn turn this on him, act like _he’s_ somehow in the wrong for being horrified about walking in on this fucking make-out session like it’s not an objectively horrifying thing to see. He feels _baffled_ , blindsided, and, what’s more, _lied_ to. “Why didn’t you _tell_ me, Zayn, did you think I wouldn’t care?!” 

“Yes!” Zayn shouts. “Look at you, you totally care! I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d fucking do _this_! Have a goddamned meltdown over it and guilt trip me and be all self-pitying and stupid, and I didn’t want to deal with it, okay? Sue me.” 

The blood is pounding so hard in Louis’s ears that he can hardly hear himself think, let alone process what Zayn is saying to him. “How long…how long has this been going on? You guys sneaking around behind my _back_?” he chokes out, heart forcing its way up into his throat, making it hard to breathe. 

Zayn rolls his eyes for the hundredth time. “ _It doesn’t matter_ how long, and we weren’t _sneaking around_ because I’m not obligated to tell you who I’m hooking up with, Louis. You keep making this about you.” 

“Oh, my god,” Louis repeats, cradling his head and inhaling shakily. “It’s been a while. You’ve been fooling around with _Liam_ for a while, and I…wait, were you pushing me to make a move on Harry to, like, take the pressure off _you_? To distract me or something? Or so I could, like, catch up to you, and you could quit _hiding it?_ ” 

“ _What??!!”_ Zayn screams in exasperation, throwing _his_ arms in the air now, face twisted into a mask of incredulity. “What the fuck are you even talking about, Louis?! I didn’t tell you because I didn’t feel like dealing with _this_.” 

Louis considers, just for a moment, that he might be overreacting. Then he recalls that Zayn-- _Zayn_ who he has known since they were in preschool, Zayn who knocked one of Louis’s baby teeth out hurling a snorkel mask at him in the pool and hitting him square in the mouth, Zayn who used to have anxiety attacks before horse shows, Zayn who once wet the bed at a sleepover party and enlisted Louis to clean up the mess with him in the middle of the night so that no one would ever know, Zayn who used to think you got girls pregnant by making them drink your pee, _that very Zayn_ \--has been secretly hooking up with Louis’s other friend and cabin mate _and didn’t even bother to tell him_. He decides he’s not reacting nearly _enough_.

“This is fucking ridiculous! _Literally everyone has a boyfriend except me_! Scat-touching, absolute idiot, _probably_ straight, total jock/survivorman _Liam Payne_ has a boyfriend…how in the fuck…Zayn. I’m gonna die alone,” Louis wails, backing into the wall and sliding down to the floor on his ass, where he sits in a pitiful pile of limbs and wordless keening. 

Zayn sighs a long-suffering and exhausted sigh before lowering himself gingerly onto the ground beside Louis, gently patting his shoulder. “You’re not going to die alone,” he says in a pained voice. “You’re just going to make your friends keep things from you by having emotional breakdowns over stuff that isn’t your business. Also, Liam clearly isn’t straight. Also also, I’m not Liam’s _boyfriend_. So you can relax.” 

“You’re not?” Louis sniffles, rolling his head against the wall to peer at Zayn through his haze of overwhelm. Of hot, betrayed, unshed tears. “Then why were you guys sucking mouths in your bunk?” 

Zayn makes a face and decidedly flicks Louis in the ear hard enough that it stings a little. “We’re just hooking up. It’s fun, it’s not serious, and you might be shocked to know, but not _everyone_ wants to get married and have 2.5 kids by the time they’re twenty-seven, okay?”

Louis tries to smile a watery smile, but instead he just wrinkles his nose, half-grimacing. “Why _Liam_? I had no idea he even liked guys, and…I just never in a million years saw this coming. I’m shocked, I guess.” His voice is at least coming out more evenly now, shaky and wobbly, sure, but not shrill or ear-splitting or anything. He takes a deep breath, trying not to picture the way Zayn and Liam’s _mouths_ had been wet when they pulled away, wet like his fucking mouth should have been wet the other night when he spent forty minutes breathing in Harry Styles’s exhalations, yet somehow still wasn’t kissing him. His hand flies to his chest, where he feels like he should be able to _touch_ the sharp ache in it, it’s so fierce, so real. 

Zayn shrugs. “Liam’s actually cool, and he grew up a lot this year. His friend from home came out, and I think he was sort of questioning his sexuality, so we talked about it, and one thing led to another…it’s chill. He’s a good kisser. Right now, it’s fun and casual and neither of us wants to push it or make it a thing, so it’s not. That’s all,” Zayn explains, shrugging like this is no big deal. And maybe to him, it isn’t. It’s just that... _Louis_ has never been able to do that, to like a guy without wanting more from him. It’s impossible for him to imagine authentically saying the things Zayn is saying, the types of things other guys have said to him, guys who wanted to keep it casual, no strings attached. Louis is positively tied up in strings, he’s like a goddamned Shibari rope girl. He wants to be fucking _knotted_ to Harry Styles. 

He groans, eyes fluttering closed. “That sounds so…so _healthy_ ,” he says disgustedly. “You guys are, like, normal fucking young people experimenting with your sexuality. It’s amazing.” 

Zayn snorts. “I mean, I’m not _always_ like this. Remember freshman year of high school, when I was obsessed with that Helena girl? I can get weird, too. Just not this time.” 

“You picked her used tissues out of the trash and kept them in your locker,” Louis reminds him, smiling faintly but for real. He takes another deep breath, hiccuping a little this time, still fighting a weird mix of tears and outrage only half-suppressed in his belly. “I can’t _believe_ you actually touched your fucking lips to Liam’s lips; I’m truly appalled, Zayn Malik,” he sighs then, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. “I’m going to need hypnosis therapy to help me forget what I almost _saw_.” 

“Hey!” Zayn snaps, crossing his arms over his bare chest, which Louis has been trying very hard to ignore because acknowledging its bareness forces him to remember what he very nearly walked in on. “Did you forget that I like guys sometimes, too? Or were you too wrapped up in your own gay angst to remember? Liam’s obviously hot, so don’t act like it’s weird.” 

“Obviously?!” Louis yelps, eyebrows flying to his hairline. He doesn’t think Liam’s hotness is a matter of objectivity but whatever. Zayn’s weird and also likes girls, so. “Look,” he adds after a moment, rubbing his arm self-consciously. “I’m really, really sorry I freaked out and acted so selfish and shit. I’m fine with you hooking up with Liam, I guess. I’m even happy for you.”

Zayn quirks up a single eyebrow skeptically. “That physically hurt you to say...I watched your eye twitch and everything.” 

“ _Shut up_ , Zayn, I’m trying to be sincere,” Louis hisses, swatting at Zayn’s arm. “But _seriously_ , I know…I _know_ I’ve been ridiculous about this whole thing, and that I’ve been leaning on you a lot without offering anything in return and how much that sucks and is exhausting. I know how much you’ve put up with, and I really appreciate it.” 

“So much,” Zayn grumbles, sighing and leaning against Louis, putting his arm around his shoulders and jostling him closer. They sit side by side against the wall of the cabin in comfortable silence for a minute, until Zayn adds, “Louis…I’ll listen to you gush over Styles all you want, and I’ll even tolerate you complaining about how all the nine-year-olds are in love with him and how you’re jealous of Camilla and how much you hate that none of his shorts fit…but at the end of the day, there’s really only so much I can do and only so much advice I can offer. At a certain point, I just can’t help you anymore if you don’t want to be helped. S’like with Helena, when I was mad that you finally raided my locker and threw away my collection of shit she touched? I needed that. The reality check.”

“It was creepy, Zayn. It was like a shrine. M’not being like that, am I?” he asks, eyes narrowing. He hasn’t stolen any of Harry’s used napkins or anything, though he might have _thought_ about it, once or twice. 

“No, you’re not like that,” Zayn snorts, carding a hand through the back of Louis’s hair with clumsy fingers. “I just mean that at some point you told me it was too much, and that I had to suck it up and stop, like, hiding behind my weird stagnant obsession and actually ask her out.” 

“Which you _did_ , and she _laughed at you,_ ” Louis reminds him. “This is a bad comparison if you’re trying to get me to ask Harry out.” 

“You _know_ what I mean, Lou,” Zayn warns, pinching Louis’s neck. “I mean you’re _rapidly approaching_ the point where nothing is going to help you with this Harry situation except _you_. Specifically, you making a move.” 

“I know,” Louis whimpers in a small voice. “I’ve at least sort of realized that it doesn’t matter if I try something and end up getting rejected because I…I need to _know_ , at least, that it’s not going to go anywhere if it’s not. The, like, _not knowing_ part is killing me.” 

“Good, that’s something,” Zayn says, patting Louis’s head just as someone pushes open the door and stumbles inside, making Louis and Zayn startle. 

Louis can tell by the stumbling alone that it’s Harry and his baby giraffe legs. “Hello, Harold,” he quips from the corner, amused as Harry spins on his heel to face them, eyes wide, cheeks flushed. 

“Oh! Hello! I was…sort of looking for you guys?” he says, face contorted in confusion, line through his brow. “Did I interrupt something?” he asks then, in a different, more cautious voice. 

Zayn, who’s still very much shirtless and still very much sitting with his his arm slung casually but intimately around Louis’s shoulders, makes an incredulous face and disentangles himself immediately. “Only our highly platonic best friends chat,” he replies, though Harry still looks bleary-eyed and lost. “Did you happen to see Liam out there, by the way?” Zayn adds. 

“Yeah, he was sitting kind of forlorn-like on a log,” Harry muses, scratching at the back of his head, arm up and giving Louis a full and cruel display of his sweat stain. 

“Fuck, okay,” Zayn sighs, hauling himself up and tugging on a hoodie before saluting. “Seeya guys at dinner?” he asks, eyes wide and dark and locked on Louis in a way that Louis thinks might mean _don’t tell anyone_ but could honestly mean anything, as Zayn is the master at mysterious, squinty-eyed looks. 

“See you,” Louis says cheerfully, waving as Zayn leaves to go find and comfort his boyfriend/not boyfriend or whatever Liam apparently is to him. He lets out a deep breath once Zayn’s gone, melting into the wall and mumbling, “Jesus christ.” 

“Okay…did I miss something?” Harry asks very slowly, collapsing onto his bunk, bony knees drawn together. He looks anxious. “That felt sort of, like… tense.” 

Louis can tell Harry is wondering if something was happening between him and Zayn, which is literally too absurd for him to even work up the energy it would take to dismiss. Plus, he’s exhausted, achey-chested, and traumatized by the mere _idea_ of Zayn and Liam hooking up, by having to entertain such a thought instead of getting to jack off like he wanted to. He sighs, eyes sweeping up Harry’s lovely body, lingering on his stupid practically see-through white shirt that reveals his nipples and tattoos. He wants to reassure him, even though he’s not sure Harry wants or needs reassurance. At any rate, Zayn didn’t _directly_ tell him not to tell, and honestly they’ll get more privacy if everyone _knows_ , so Louis thinks _fuck it_. “Apparently, Zayn and Liam are hooking up,” he says, trying to sound nonchalant and not at all gossipy. Or bitter.

Harry’s eyes get very wide. “They…what? _Liam?_ ” he asks, hand slowly rising to his mouth to cover it. 

Louis grins. “Yep. I literally walked in on them full-on tongue kissing with their shirts off. It was positively horrifying.” 

“I think it’s sweet!” Harry exclaims, his whole fucking demeanor totally changed. He’s back to bubbly Harry, goofy Harry, dimples and twinkly eyes with his tongue sticking out Harry. Louis feels all kinds of warm inside just _seeing_ him change like that. Was Harry _upset_ by the idea of Louis and Zayn possibly having tension? Is he relieved that he misread the situation? Or is he really just too many kinds of weird to keep track of?

Louis sighs, spreading his palm over his aching solar plexus. “I guess? I also think you’re, like…not supposed to know, so, uh, don’t tell anyone I told you,” he admits, making a guilty face. 

“Oh, god, we should get out of the cabin! They probably want it, don’t they? Since we all have the rest of the afternoon mostly off?” Harry says, delighted. 

“Do we?” Louis asks, eyebrows arched. 

“Oh, yeah, that’s what I originally came to tell you about…they’re way overstaffed on the capture-the-flag field; too many counselors for the amount of kids, and the counselors kept winning and getting competitive, and the kids got really frustrated and started crying, so Ben sent, like, half of us to the lake and let the rest of us have the afternoonoff so he could micromanage like an asshole,” he explains, shrugging. “I was doing a great job of letting kids win, just fyi,” he adds with a grin. 

Louis wants to nap. Louis wants to jack off. Louis wants to crawl in a hole and hide from the fact that he literally can’t even look at Harry without his heart clenching in acute, painful yearning. But no matter how tired or sexually frustrated he is, if he has an opportunity to hang out with Harry, he’s going to take it. “So…do you still want to see me ride a horse?” he asks, coloring even as he _says_ it, like a fucking idiot. 

Harry claps his hands together, gasping. “Oh, my goodness. Yes. Are we going down to the barn?” he sounds equally excited and terrified. 

Louis smiles fondly. “Yep. Exposure therapy time.” 

—-

Harry waits outside 14C while Louis changes into his breeches, tugging on mud-crusted paddock boots and half-chaps with shaking fingers. He’s unbelievably nervous, and he doesn’t even know _why_. It’s not like _I want to see you ride a horse_ roughly translates to _I also want to see you ride my cock_ in any unive rse; it’s not some code word. _He’s_ the one who’s imposing suggestive shit onto Harry’s likely very innocent curiosity, and he shouldn’t go reading more into it; he shouldn’t be wondering if this is some…date or something. That’s the type of stuff that gets him hurt. 

He laces up his boots and fastens his chaps before sitting on his hands, wiping the clammy film of sweat off on his sleeping bag and taking a deep, shaky breath. His stomach hasn’t fully recovered from _anything_ that’s happened today…getting bowled over on the capture-the-flag field, struggling to accept that _Zayn and Liam are touching mouths and possibly penises_ , fighting with his best friend, existing in the same fucking universe as Harry Styles. _You need to get your shit together_ , he scolds himself, shaking his hair out as he stands to lock the cabin up and find Harry outside. 

He’s sitting on the ground arranging some broken sticks and pinecones into the shape of a quadrupedal…mammal, maybe, legs crossed awkwardly in front of him. “Nice hippo,” Louis tries, standing in front of Harry with his hands on his waist, hip popped because he knows his ass looks good in breeches, and he can’t help standing like this when that knowledge resides in the back of his mind. 

Harry’s gaze sweeps up, landing to rest on Louis’s face. He pouts, “It’s a horse, actually. The first step in my exposure therapy...a likeness of my fear!”

“It’s not a very accurate likeness,” Louis observes, something huge and affectionate swelling in his chest as Harry’s eyes widen in mock offense, “but I appreciate your commitment to the cause regardless. Are you ready? To go to the barn, I mean?” His voice gets a little high and reedy at the end, so he swallows anxiously to dispel it. 

“Oh, god,” Harry whines, making a face and standing unsteadily, like a brand-new baby deer testing its weight on inexperienced limbs. He wobbles, brushing debris from the ground off the jeans he changed into after Louis told him he needed to wear real pants if he was gonna be around horses. (Which is true but also a deliberate device to do _something_ about those shorts because there’s only so much torture Louis can take.) “I think I’m ready. M’scared, though. You’re gonna have to go slow with me.” 

Louis gnashes his teeth together, willing his cheeks to not get hot, which is a useless task because Harry’s sidling up close to him, hooking his arm through Louis’s and putting his head on his shoulder, and Louis might be able to suffer though Harry accidentally saying suggestive shit but not _actual physical contact_. “We’re not even _there_ yet! Do you need my valiant protection already, young Harold?” Louis asks, throwing his head back in feigned exasperation. He reaches for Harry to pat his head then, so that he can touch him but still be sort of patronizing about it. It would be a much more effective ploy if his hands weren’t still fucking shaking but whatever. Louis is running out of ways to hide this. 

“Yes,” Harry tells him, clinging to his arm like a koala. “I’m already thinking about their scary, soulless eyes with the square pupils.” 

“Hey!” Louis snaps, offended on behalf of horses everywhere. “They’re not _soulless,_ ” he explains defensively, dragging Harry down the dirt pathway from the central camp compound to the barn. He can already smell the horses, the manure and alfalfa and salt and leather, spicy and earthy. He inhales it, trying to calm himself down, because this…this is his element. Or at least, it should be. This is where he feels comfortable, on a stage or on a horse, performing or completely forgetting to, just giving way to the rhythm of movement, of hooves against earth. Bringing Harry to the barn should make him feel _better_ about this, reconciling two things he loves in the same place. Still, he’s so fucking _nervous_ about it. “They’re deep and sensitive,” he adds, tearing his eyes away from the top of Harry’s head, the dark tousle of curls. 

“I’m open to being convinced,” Harry says skeptically. 

They walk arm in arm, joking and laughing, Louis gently teasing Harry for the increasingly tight grip on his arm, the near-audible thud of his heart. Louis wonders if the walk to the barn has ever zipped by so fucking _quickly_ when they make it, Harry’s fingers digging into the meat of his bicep, vice-like and almost painful, but Louis isn’t complaining. They linger just outside the fence of the paddock, watching the horses meander around, snuffling in each other’s manes, grooming and flicking flies with their tails. “How are you doing?” Louis asks, voice lower than he means it, quieter. Harry is still clutching his arm, close enough that if he turned to face him, his hair would tickle Louis’s nose, would brush against his cheek. He inhales unsteadily, wondering how he can get _so fucking fluttery inside_ just from standing beside Harry Styles. 

“I dunno. Okay, I guess,” Harry answers, eyes locked on the horses. “What do I do? Like, how do I act? Can’t they sort of…smell fear?” 

Louis laughs. “Well, _yeah_ , they can sense if you’re scared, but they’re just going to be more scared of you. They aren’t going to, like…attack or anything. What are you even afraid of? Getting kicked? Bitten? Is it, like, a concrete fear or…,” he trails off as his voice fucking dies in his throat because Harry is letting go of him. But he’s not just _letting go_ , he’s easing up the pressure, allowing his fingers to loosen up and slide gently down the inside of Louis’s arm, stopping to rest just over his now frantic pulse, idle, accidental. Louis tries not to drop dead on the spot. 

“No, not anything like that…I mean, I obviously don’t want to be kicked or bitten, but that’s not what I’m worried about. It’s more, like…I dunno. They’re big, and what if they send a telepathic transmission to their home world leader about me, and he beams me up to go to, like…some maximum security alien prison?” 

“Ah, so you and the horses are from warring planets or something?” Louis asks, quirking an eyebrow up as Harry drums his fingers against the inside of his wrist and pretending he’s not about three seconds away from going into anaphylactic shock. 

Harry’s fingers fall away, _thank god_ , and he shrugs. “Something like that. I can’t go into stuff about my home planet much.” 

“You’re fine; if I tell them you’re with me, they’ll pardon you. We’re allies, the horses and I,” Louis explains, starting toward the fence and beckoning to Harry, who’s still sort of rooted to the ground, pigeon-toed in his dumb boots, hands now clasped behind him. “Come on, they aren’t going to charge you or anything.” 

“Or you could just…ride around, and I can watch you from here?” Harry suggests hopefully, eyebrows arching up. 

“Nope, I’m not gonna let you get away with that. C’mon, I’ll have you meet Bernard and Bianca; they’re _ponies_ , so you should be able to handle them, okay? They’re smaller. We can start small.” 

“Small is good,” Harry sighs, reluctantly following Louis to the barn’s breezeway, looking shiftily over his shoulder, shivering.

Louis swallows thickly and makes himself grab Harry’s wrist and pull him along resolutely, eyes fixed ahead. “We’re gonna get carrots for them, and you’re gonna make friends,” he explains as he rummages through the mini fridge where they keep supplements, medications, carrots, and emergency water bottles in case some kid gets dehydrated in the saddle. He grabs a carrot from the crisper and hands it to Harry. “Break it into little bits. Peace offerings for the aliens,” he says. 

While Harry reduces the carrot to bite-sized pieces, he heads into the paddock with Bernard and Bianca’s halters, willing his heart to slow down. The barn is weird and quiet and echoey with no Zayn, Camilla, and horde of overexcited kids to fill it up with needless noise, making the clatter of tiny hooves sound extra loud as he leads the ponies back up the breezeway to tether to the hitching post. Harry watches him approach, eyes sort of wide and terrified. “Wow,” he says quietly, crossing his arms across himself defensively even as his face softens. “The logical side of my brain is telling me that these very tiny horses are very tiny and very cute,” he says, “but the other part of me still thinks they’re spies and want to turn me in.” 

“They told me they know that you’re one of us, and that your sympathies lie with the horse alien rebellion, not with whatever weird mermaid giraffe planet your ancestors are from. You may approach slowly and calmly, if you wish,” Louis says, patting Bianca’s withers. “It’s safe, Harry, I promise.” 

Harry side-steps over, clutching his carrots to his chest, which is probably a wise move because Bernard is already onto him, nostrils flaring and eyes wide, trying to push past his sister to get to Harry. “Oi, Bernard, chill, wait your turn,” Louis chides, pushing his muzzle away in warning. “Here, come to her first, since she’s being so patient.

His breath catches as Harry comes up behind him, thrumming with energy, warm and nervous and really, really close. It feels good and solid and electric, and he leans back into it subtly, so his back brushes against Harry’s chest. Neither of them really pulls away from it. “Okay, what do I do now? Assist me in diplomatic relations with my sworn mortal enemy, oh, human ambassador,” Harry jokes, but his voice is tight, anxious, breath hot against Louis’s neck. 

Louis shivers, and he feels fucking drunk. The barn is so quiet, and it’s easy to imagine they’re isolated, far away from the concept of camp and everything that comes along with it, the responsibility and rules and rank. Harry could just be a boy, a boy standing so very close to him, breathing against his neck, so fucking warm it’s maddening, dizzying. Louis swallows and manages to say, “Okay, um, give me your hand.” 

Harry does it, transferring all his carrot bits into one hand and offering the other, flat palmed, to Louis. He’s perspiring lightly, shifting his weight from foot to foot so that he can flinch away easily every time Bianca snorts or stamps or does basically anything at all save for standing there, silent and motionless. “Are you gonna make me pet her?” Harry asks tentatively. 

“I’m not gonna _make_ you do anything,” Louis answers, carefully taking Harry’s hand in his own, thumb right in the center of his palm as he extends both of their arms toward Bianca’s fluffy coat. He’s pretty sure Harry can’t tell this is the most erotic moment of his entire life, which is good. “Do you _want_ to pet her?” 

“I guess, I mean...I want to not be afraid of horses,” Harry mumbles, eyes fixed on his own fingers, which are flickering from a soft curl to a full extension, palm flexing against Louis’s thumb as he tries to ground him, tries to center him, tries to not let himself get flustered and hard and confused from touching a boy’s _hand_ , like a fifteen-year-old virgin or something. Their breath catches in their throats as Bianca side-steps, incidentally pushing her flank flush against Harry’s outstretched hand. He winces but doesn’t pull away. “She’s soft!” Harry exclaims, voice hushed and excited 

Louis feels sort of triumphant as he moves his hand so it’s covering Harry’s, pressing him gently into Bianca’s coat before pulling away, leaving Harry to pet her unassisted. “Not so bad, right?” he asks, fingers tingling as he brushes them against his breeches, swallowing thickly. “Not the terror you expected.” 

“Oh, my god,” Harry breathes, getting bolder and scratching along Bianca’s back, the plane of muscle that frames the divot of her spine. “She’s so fluffy! I never, ever would have thought a horse could be so fluffy. They usually look sort of sleek, like a snake or a sea lion or something.” He combs his fingers through her mane gently, eyes wide with wonder. “Hello!” he coos as she turns to look at him balefully. Then she twitches a fly off, and he snatches his hand back. “Oh! Did I hurt her?” 

“No, no, it’s okay,” Louis explains, heart clenching because Harry is so _lovely_ , so careful and gentle and kind, even when he’s nervous, trembling beside Louis, all jumpy and tightly coiled. “She’s just getting rid of flies. See, horses have this big sheet of muscle that covers their whole back so they can twitch flies off. She’s just itchy, look,” he explains, reaching past Harry and scratching Bianca on her favorite spot, right between her front legs, in the ditch between her chest muscles. She shivers in delight, extending her neck and mouthing at the air. 

Harry claps his hand over his mouth. “Oh, wow, she’s really so, so cute--they both are! I’m starting to feel stupid for thinking they were scary.” 

“You want to feed her?” Louis asks, quirking up an eyebrow as he rubs Bianca down from her shoulders to her hind quarters, Harry watching all the while as dust comes up off her coat in plumes. “You can pet her some more, too, if you want, I can tell she likes you.” 

“Really?!” Harry gasps, reaching out tentatively again, this time for her neck, which he skates his fingers down gently, carefully. “How can you tell?” 

“Look at her ears,” Louis answers, positioning himself closer to Harry so he can pet Bianca’s neck, too, their hands close enough to occasionally brush, each moment of accidental contact sending a terrible, electric zing down his spine. “See how they’re just kind of hanging back like that, not pinned or pricked forward? It means she’s relaxed, sort of like a cat. When horses put their ears back, they’re warning you away, and when they’re facing forward or moving around, they’re listening to something. It’s a good way to, like…get a read on their mood. Also, see her eyes? They’re closed; she’s very chilled out getting all this love,” Louis explains, Harry watching him intently, eyes wide as they volley between Louis and Bianca’s ears. 

“You know so much about horses,” he says quietly, voice soft with awe as he carefully, carefully moves his hand up to Bianca’s cheek. “Can I pet her face? I want to touch her little whiskers.” 

“Pony noses are unbearably velveteen...are you ready?” Louis asks. Then, because he feels like he might die if he doesn’t touch Harry and merely pass out if he does, he adds, “Want me to help you?” 

“Yes, please,” Harry says, hand trembling as Louis gently takes it and brings it to stroke down Bianca’s white blaze. Louis can feel his pulse pick up in his wrist, the gentle thrum of blood just under the soft, thin skin there, and he can’t stop thinking about what it would be like to turn his head and press a kiss behind Harry’s ear, the ripple of his throat, the curve of his cheek. So many soft, lightly flushed places on Harry so close to him, his skin heated and a little sweat-damp and spicy smelling. He wants him so fucking badly, he can hardly think of anything else. 

“Um,” Louis starts, eyes fixed on Harry’s hand, his broad-knuckled fingers brushing down the flat bone of Bianca’s nose. He has such big hands, much bigger than Louis’s, but still delicate, somehow, perhaps in their gentleness. “So, you have to go slowly when touching their faces...their eyes are on the side of their heads, which means they have a big blind spot. It’s always good to approach from the side and to not make any big movements…we’re predators, and horses are prey. They have no biological reason to trust us, really, so we have to, like…earn that trust,” Louis explains, tugging gently on Bianca’s forelock, smiling as Harry strokes down between her nostrils and gasps at the softness. 

“That’s beautiful,” Harry whispers, transfixed as Bianca huffs gently. “I can see why you love them so much…in theory, at least. If a horse likes you, you’re like the chosen one, which is very cool.” 

“Exactly, it’s an honor,” Louis explains, voice tight and reedy. “Here, gimme those carrots,” he says, taking them from Harry’s other hand, teeth grit against the inevitable electricity of touching Harry’s hands, however unintentionally. “Okay, cup your hands together and make a flat surface?” Harry obliges, eyes wide as Louis drops a single piece of carrot into his splayed hands. “Now, offer it to her, but keep your fingers straight like that...gives her less to accidentally bite.”

Harry giggles like one of the camp kids as Bianca mouths up the carrot with much enthusiasm. “It tickles,” he observes, grinning as he proceeds to feed the remainder of the carrot pieces to each of the ponies, alternating in a very egalitarian fashion. It’s fucking adorable, and Louis just stands there surveying, arms crossed as he watches Harry get horse slobber and dirt all over his hands. When the carrots are gone, Harry wipes the aforementioned horse slobber and dirt thoughtlessly on his black jeans, which shouldn’t be endearing but of course it is. “All gone guys, sorry,” Harry says regretfully, ruffling up Bernard’s mane.

“You look more comfortable, like a regular equestrian now,” Louis praises, grinning.. “Ready for a bigger one?” 

Harry actually leans in and _kisses_ Bianca on top of her head, right between her eyes. There are horse hairs clinging to his lips when he pulls away, and his eyes are very soft and sweet and mushy. Louis is very jealous but also really in love. “I think so, but I’m obsessed with these two. I want to get one hundred ponies and let them all live in my house...they’re perfect and adorable,” Harry says fondly, smiling so much and so brightly it makes Louis dry-mouthed and dizzy to look at him for too long. 

“Well, _that_ was a quick turnaround,” Louis teases, though he’s actually sort of impressed. “M’gonna go get Oliver. He’s my favorite, and he’s also objectively cuddly, for a horse.” 

“I don’t _need_ to cuddle horses anymore...I wanna see you ride, remember?” Harry says, cocking his head and wiping the layer of filth that’s gathered on his hands on the ass of his jeans. “You’re allowed to, right? Take a horse out and ride it if you want to because you’re, like, a professional?” 

Louis sighs, stomach dropping a little bit, as it has every time Harry talks about _watching him_. “Technically, no, but pretty much no one cares, and these horses need all the exercise they can get. It’s not a big deal, but are you sure it’s not, like…boring for you to just sit and watch? I can’t imagine it being very exciting. I’ll probably just ride him around that area,” he says, pointing to the circular pipe corral they use for kids who need to be ponied and horses that need to be lunged. “It’s a circle. I’m literally just gonna be going around in a circle.” 

“I don’t mind! I really want to,” Harry pleads. “It won’t be boring. It’ll be, like, very informative.” 

“Okay,” Louis eventually agrees, heart in his throat. “Lemme go get Oliver and tack him up,” he sighs. 

It’s been a very long time since his heart has lodged itself up into his throat before getting on a horse, and the feeling reminds him of shows, of dressage tests, of the anticipatory butterflies he’d get before he tried out a green horse at his old barn. It’s a distantly familiar feeling, almost nostalgic. 

Harry grins at him, looking very pleased with himself. Louis’s stomach positively _plummets_ then. And that, _that_ is all new, nothing to do with horses and everything to do with Harry’s mess of curls and the dust clinging to them, the way his forehead is broken out, the way he doesn’t seem to _care_ about how dirty or unglamorous it is to actually be around horses, the way he has dirt under his nails and horse shit stuck to the sole of his fancy boot, and he’s still _here_ , eyes jewel-green and bright and excited. 

Louis takes a deep, shaky breath and tries to slow his heart on the way to the paddock. 

—-

Harry stands by, watching with wide eyes from a safe distance as Louis throws a bareback pad over Oliver’s withers and cinches it. “That’s not the same saddle the kids use,” he observes, like he actually knows stuff about horses and has somehow transformed into an overnight horse expert, and Louis has to hide an explosive smile with his forearm to keep Harry from seeing how absolutely delighted he is by the shit he says. 

“No, it’s not. It’s not even a saddle, actually,” Louis tells him, cinching the girth up another few holes after Oliver relaxes a little, before patting his neck affectionately. “The kids use a Western saddle, the one that has the horn up front…not like a car horn but a, weird little handle thing. Technically, it’s for tying a rope to if you have a cow on the other end, but it’s also good to hang on to in the event that you’re a kid who only rides during summer camp so you don’t have core strength or balance or anything,” he explains, gesturing to the area of the bareback pad where a horn _would_ be, if that was the saddle he was using. Harry is listening intently, like he finds this sort of thing truly interesting, so Louis continues, even though he’s only half-sure Harry cares. Like, maybe he’s just being polite? He can’t _actually_ want to know about saddles, but there he is, eyes wide and expectant. “When I _did_ ride regularly, I used an English saddle…looks more like this, sort of flat and close contact, without the horn, but it still has stirrups for your feet.” 

“Wait, so what’s this then!?” Harry asks, gesturing to the pad. “It just looks like a blanket with a belt.” 

Louis giggles as he puts the reins over Oliver’s head, unfastens his halter, clips it back around his neck and eases the bit into his mouth gently. Oliver is pretty good about most things, but taking the bit isn’t one of them, so Louis has to try a few times. “It’s a bareback pad, for riding bareback,” he replies once he gets the bit in and fastens the bridle’s noseband and headstall. He pats Oliver’s cheek, checking the girth one last time before leading him down the breezeway. Harry follows, giving them a wide, cautious berth of space. “It pretty much _is_ a blanket with a belt, mostly just to keep my ass from getting sweaty and to give me a little extra grip and padding. We don’t use them with the kids because there’s basically nothing keeping you on the horse except your own balance, and none of our kids _have_ balance, really,” he explains. “C’mon up here, I promise you’re _less_ likely to get kicked the closer you are to his head.” 

Harry jogs up to meet him. “So, you’re basically riding….with no saddle,” he says, cheeks suddenly flushing a deep pink as he looks down abruptly, eyes fixed on the ground. 

“Yep, bareback,” Louis says lightly as he leads Oliver up to a plastic, sun-bleached old mounting block by the round pen. “Since all I’m gonna be doing is trotting around in a circle for you.” 

Harry’s very quiet as Louis hoists himself up onto Oliver’s back, adjusting his body and patting Oliver reassuringly on the neck before sitting up tall, looking around. Every time he gets on a horse, no matter how much he’s riding or how used to it he should be by now, it _always_ feels like a revelation, a massive, indescribable shift in perspective. Things sound different up here, feel different. He sighs, getting his breath and his balance, trying not to think too much about the fact that _Harry is watching this whole process so eagerly and attentively_ , for some reason. He applies a little pressure with his inner leg and eases Oliver up to the gate of the round pen. “Mind opening this for us? I can do it myself, but why bother when there’s someone on the ground, right?” 

“Right…,” Harry says, carefully stepping closer and looking up at Louis, mouth flattened into a line. “But then I’d have to get sort of close to this, like, giant, scary full-scale version of the ponies.” 

Louis sighs dramatically and flops out on Oliver’s back like he’s sitting in a recliner. “Harold, please, Oliver’s an exhausted old camp horse...I promise he’ll just stand there chewing his bit.” 

“Okay,” Harry says as he fumbles with the gate a few times before getting it, stealing nervous glances over his shoulder the whole time, like Oliver is gonna reach out and touch him with his nose, even though he and Louis are a good two feet away. “He’s just so big,” Harry murmurs, finally pushing the gate open. “It’s very intimidating.” 

Louis rides into the round pen and turns Oliver into the fence, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth in a somewhat effective attempt to get Oliver to pick up a more extended walk. “Here, I’m riding, you’re watching. Is it everything you thought it would be?” he asks, feeling sort of stupid as he twists on the pad to look at Harry as he latches the gate back up behind them. “Are you entertained?” he asks, because he really can’t imagine Harry _would_ be. 

“Very!” Harry answers in a chipper voice, stepping up onto the lowest metal rung of the pipe corral so he can prop his elbows up over the top and watch unobstructed. “You look great up there.” 

Louis’s insides swoop unpleasantly, but he tries to let it go, tries to stay focused, calm. You want to remain focused and calm when you’re sitting on a moving animal without a real saddle to keep you in place. “Well, thank you, Harold. Oliver and I appreciate the compliment...,” he sort of trails off awkwardly, letting his body move with Oliver’s stride, trying to keep himself loose. It’s fucking _weird_ , though, just riding around in a circle while Harry watches him like it’s a spectacle, and he can’t stand not knowing what Harry’s _thinking_ or _wanting_ , so after his next lap, he blurts out, “What…do you want to see anything in particular? I don’t know any _circus tricks_...I can’t stand up or jump him through a fire hoop or anything. What do you want?” 

Harry shrugs, blinking very slowly, eyes green and dark and solemn all at once. Like he’s trying to stay focused and calm, too, instead of pulling away from the fence self-protectively every time Louis rides by. “I just wanted to see you doing something that you love,” he explains. “And to, like…I dunno. Watch you be happy.” 

Louis stops Oliver, settling back down onto the pad and tightening his grip on the reins to steady himself. His blood is pounding in his ears, distracting and loud and dizzying. Harry is so… _so fucking confusing_ , too good and sweet and honest for Louis to get an objective read on. _Do you like me?_ he wonders desperately, nudging Oliver back into motion with his heels now that he’s regained his steadiness. _Do you like me, or are you just so fucking wonderful that it feels like you do?_

“This seems, like, first gear or something…does he go faster?” Harry asks then, head cocked, cheeks rosy, eyes squinted up in the sun because he has his Ray-Bans on his head, holding his curls back as if he’d rather watch Louis bathed in sunlight instead of from behind a layer of glass. 

“Yeah, you wanna see second gear? S’gonna suck, though, trotting is bouncy and uncomfortable without stirrups,” Louis explains, sitting up tall and leaning forward, giving Oliver a firm tap on the side with his feet because he’s the sort of horse who needs a little extra encouragement for any real forward motion. “I might have to skip the trot and just move straight into a canter…which is, like, third gear, basically,” Louis explains. 

“Yes! Third gear!” Harry cheers, standing on his tiptoes, grinning wide and eager. “I want to see something fast.” 

“Won’t be _fast_ , this horse is incapable of true _fastness_ ,” he shouts above the din of hooves on earth.

“Looks fast to me,” Harry says, sounding exhilarated. And maybe this _is_ interesting for him, maybe he’s so afraid of horses that simply seeing someone bounce around on top of one is like an adrenaline rush or something. Louis doesn’t know. Harry is confusing. 

“Okay, c’mon boy,” Louis gripes, settling deep into Oliver’s back and kicking swiftly with his inside leg. He endures a few horrible seconds of too-fast trotting before Oliver breaks out into a lazy, half-assed lope. He’s on the wrong lead, and it’s sort of bumpy and inconsistent for a canter, but Harry makes such a thrilled gasping sound in his throat that Louis supposes it’s okay. 

“Oh, my god! You look like a professional, like a bank robber in a Western or something. The Lone Ranger,” Harry exclaims, hands clasped over his mouth like it fills him with fucking awe to see Louis canter a tired, grumpy camp horse around a round pen so small he’s dizzy after a single lap. 

“Oh, god, I _hope_ I look better than the Lone Ranger,” he complains. “I hate the way actors ride in Westerns, the way they’re always pulling on their horses’ heads. S’awful.” He drops out of the canter and back into a trot before picking up the canter again, trying to get the right lead. Oliver’s not having it, though, so he sighs, cutting across the pen and asking for a flying lead change, just for the hell of it. He’s not sure if Oliver has ever done a flying lead change in his entire life, but somehow, right as they hit the arena’s middle point, he switches leads beautifully, landing in a perfect canter as they change direction. It’s sort of amazing, and Louis’s mouth falls open in astonishment. 

“Well, you look better than a Western, then. You just look really good, majestic, like,” Harry explains, gesturing in the air uselessly, tragically missing the absolute miracle that has just happened before him. 

“What the fuck, I just got this horse to do a flying lead change totally on accident!” Louis shouts over the whistle of the wind in his ears, which is a real actual thing now that he’s in a proper canter. “That totally never happens. Your presence must be some sort of good luck charm...I can’t believe it,” he tells Harry, getting one more good lap out of Oliver before he starts to feel him lose steam. “Whoa, buddy,” he says, sitting back and letting him fall back into a trot, then eventually a walk. He pats his neck appreciatively, fingers coming away a little sweat-foamy because apparently four laps of cantering around a fucking _round pen_ is a workout for a camp horse. “Good job...didn’t know you had it in you.” 

“A flying what?!” Harry asks as Louis pulls Oliver up in front of him and halts. “I couldn’t tell it was anything different! Just looked like you changed direction and got faster.” 

“A flying lead change is when a horse changes lead legs in the canter without slowing down…,” he trails off, knowing full well that he isn’t making sense to a layperson, even though Harry makes him want to try anyway. “Fuck, I don’t actually know how to explain it to you?” Louis says, transferring both reins to one hand so he can wipe the film of sweat from his brow, where it’s beading and threatening to drip into his eyes. “Just know it’s sort of a pain in the ass to do, especially on horses like Oliver who spend most of their time hanging out in a paddock being lazy or carting kids around on trail rides two months out of the year,” he explains, sighing, a little breathless with some kind of weird, flying-lead-change-induced euphoria. Or because Harry is looking up at him with glittery eyes too bright and green to _not_ get breathless over. “You’re probably magical,” he tells Harry. “A horse whisperer. You’re missing out on a massive future in horse whispering, so you should really get over your fear.” 

“I’m working on it! That’s why we’re out here,” Harry reminds him, reaching out and stroking Oliver’s neck as if to prove his point. Louis cocks his head because he’s _not_ actually sure why they’re out here together, why anything is happening. 

_Oh, I thought this was all an elaborate ploy so you could ogle me,_ Louis imagines saying, the sort of joke he might make if Harry were an anonymous boy and Louis was flirting just to flirt, drawing attention to an unspoken dynamic they were both playing at, like when he playfully called out his old trainer’s assistant for blatantly checking out his ass in his breeches during his lessons. It’s _different_ with Harry, though--soft, sweet Harry, with his goofy smile and gentle hands, which he’s currently carding through Oliver’s mane, trembling and experimental. He doesn’t know how to flirt with Harry because he wants more from him than he’d ever be able to ask for, and he doesn’t know how to call him out on checking out his ass because he’s not even certain that’s what’s _happening_ , what this is. If Harry is the type of boy who does that sort of thing or the type of boy who carries his friends’ backpacks for entire hikes because he’s, like…generous, the type of boy who shares his sleeping bags and spoons for warmth and says he _wants to watch you be happy_ just _because_ , just because he’s _like_ that, sugar-spun and authentic and brilliant. 

Louis ponders mixed signals as he dismounts, leading Oliver back into the barn and tying him back up to the hitching post, the sun beating down on his back, hard and hot enough that he thinks he might be burning. 

Harry follows him, feeding Oliver handfuls of grass he ripped up from the ground like an absolute child, palms flat even as he’s visibly hesitant, fearful. Louis _loves_ him, loves him fiercely and illogically, the type of love that makes his chest feel tight, his smile threatening to split his face into something obvious. He chews the inside of his cheek, snickering as Oliver froths a bunch of green grass-spit around his bit as he chews, and Harry makes a disgusted face. “What, you can’t expect to give a horse a bunch of grass when he’s got a metal thing in his mouth and then act shocked when he drools,” Louis chides, unfastening Oliver’s bridle and pulling it over his head before shouldering it, followed by the bareback pad. “You want to help me groom?” he asks, frowning at the saddle mark he left. 

“Yes!” Harry says enthusiastically, as eager as he is grossed out. Louis shows him how to curry the hair matted down with sweat so that it goes in the opposite direction and can dry out. They brush Oliver clean and pick his hooves, a process that fascinates Harry ( _the girls on the overnight hike made it sound like a manicure, but this is actually, like….brutal_ ), who makes a series of horrified faces as he watches Louis dig manure and caked dirt out of the divots of Oliver’s feet. They eventually finish and take him back to the paddock, and Harry waves to him as he meanders off, like someone tearfully saying goodbye to their soldier beau at a train station. “Bye, Oliver, you’re too big, and your spit is green, which is gross, but I still like you,” he calls after him before hopping off the fence. “Even if I don't like him as much as the ponies,” he whispers to Louis, quiet enough that Oliver won’t be able to hear and get insulted if he were somehow capable of understanding English. “They have normal not green spit,” he adds. 

“You have to quit insulting his spit when it’s your fault it happened in the first place,” Louis scolds over his shoulder as Harry follows him back into the cool, drafty interior of the barn. “If you fed the ponies some grass when they had a bit in their mouths, I promise the same thing would happen.” It takes a minute for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, and Harry bumps into him from behind, smelling like sunshine and sweat and pine, fresh and dirty all at once, real in a way that makes Louis’s mouth water, his breath catch. “I have to put this shit in the tack room before we leave,” he explains uselessly, licking his lips, suddenly dizzy and confused in the dark, his skin prickling from the heat outside, the sheen of sweat cooling on it. _You don’t have to stay...you could head back if you don’t want to wait for me,_ he thinks about saying, if only to hear Harry’ s inevitable response, _no, I want to! Of course, I’ll stay_. Because…Harry is _like_ that. Too good and too confusing. His chest aches with everything he’s uncertain about, all the ways he wants Harry, all the things he doesn’t know for _sure_ about him. 

Louis nudges the door to the tack room open, and Harry's gasps. “Oh! This is where you keep all the horse supplies and saddles and stuff?” he asks, eyes shining and interested. “What’s this?” he asks, pointing to a really fancy bit with a curb chain that’s hanging on a hook by the bridles, disconnected from everything else because it’s too harsh to use with any of these tired old horses. “It looks like some weird bondage thing,” Harry observes, as if that’s an acceptable thing for a human as attractive as he is to say idly, with no consequence. “Actually, this whole room basically looks like a dungeon,” Harry adds casually, reaching up and touching the bit with tentative fingers. 

Louis fucking _chokes_ on his own saliva, a sound he manages to effectively disguise with laughter after the fact, dissolving hysterically into giggles. “It’s a _bit_ ,” he gasps frantically, “The metal thing…the thing between their teeth. There are a bunch of different kinds, see,” he says, gesturing to the rest of the bridles and snorting when Harry snatches his hand back upon learning the thing he was just touching was formerly in a horse’s mouth. “Most are simpler..., like this one, it’s a snaffle, and this one is an eggbutt….” 

Harry whips around, eyes narrowed at Louis, his laughter dying in his throat. “Wait, _what_?! Literally, this whole time I’ve been trying to figure out if you’re fucking with me, but you went too far and _made that up_. There’s no way these are called snaffle eggbutts or whatever you just said,” he glares, hands on his hips.

Louis blinks rapidly, baffled, trying to catch up with himself and process that this entire trip to the barn has consisted of Harry half-questioning the validity of everything he’s been saying, and he didn’t even _anticipate_ this turn of events because it’s not _his_ fault horse terminology sounds 90 percent made up. He’s so used to it that he’s practically immune. “Harold, I _would not_ lie to you...there are bits called eggbutt bits, and horse stuff is really, really weird. I don’t know what else to tell you,” he shrugs, not feeling prepared to go into the unfortunate truth that most horse gear _does_ look like BDSM gear. He just….he can’t talk about bondage in front of Harry; he can’t even make a joke about it because it will inevitably result in his mind supplying him with images of Harry tied up to his headboard or something. And he can’t survive that. 

Harry’s eyebrows fly to his hairline. “I’m really gullible, and you’re taking advantage of it!” he yelps. “There’s _no way_ that’s called _eggbutt_.”

Louis throws his hands in the air in exasperation. “It is! I promise! If I had a phone, I would google it, okay?” 

They stand there, staring at each other for a few taut, loaded seconds. Harry’s eyes flash as they narrow, and then he carefully asks, “What’s…what’s this called?” as he points to a series of straps and metal O-rings draped over a kid-sized Western saddle. 

It looks like shit Martin Gore would have worn onstage during ‘80s-era Depeche Mode, and Louis _cannot_ keep a straight face as he says, slowly and through a grimace, “It’s for keeping the saddle from slipping back. It straps around the horse's chest, and fuck, Harry, you aren’t gonna believe me, but it's called a _breast collar_ ,” he explains, and Harry makes a wordless, incredulous noise that thankfully breaks the tension stretched between them, the sexual tension or the you-lied-to-me tension or whatever it is; Louis is reeling and has no fucking idea anymore. 

“No! It’s _not_. Is it?” he asks, picking it up and examining it closely, like he’ll be able to detect whether or not it’s actually called a breast collar by sheer and ignorant will power. Louis’s weak with laughter, bracing himself against a saddle tree and wheezing. 

“It is! I’m sorry, but that thing is absolutely, undoubtedly called a breast collar. I’ve never even _thought_ about how weird these names are,” he hiccups, and Harry is laughing, too, even though he still has a suspicious gather to his mouth, lovely and twisted to the side like he doesn’t quite _believe_ Louis yet, but he thinks the situation is hilarious anyway. 

“What are these?” he asks, pointing to a tower of blankets, and luckily Louis doesn’t have to say anything absurd because they’re literally just blankets. 

“Saddle pads,” he explains, spreading his palm over his stomach as he fights hysterics, watching Harry and his wide, impossible eyes with a hazy, mind-numbing sort of adoration. He can do this all day, sit here in the tack room explaining the function of every single piece of tack and cracking up over it, admiring how nice Harry’s hands look with horse dirt under the nails. “Boring,” he adds, waving a hand through the air. 

“What about…,” Harry scans the room for victims, gaze lingering in the corners until it lands on something that makes his eyes get glassy, his cheeks a sudden pink. Louis is too busy tracking that lovely flush to even notice what Harry’s looking at, tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth in longing as he watches Harry flatten his palm out over his mouth, looking positively stunned. “Is that…is that a _whip_?” he asks breathlessly. 

Louis cranes his neck to look, suddenly hot-faced, dry-mouthed. “Um,” he says, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Yeah, well…a crop, really. There are whips in here somewhere, but they’re dressage whips, which are longer and springier.” 

Harry turns to him, mouth hanging open, eyes all pupil, and Louis thinks he might incinerate; he can’t joke about this. He can laugh off horse gear that _looks_ like bondage gear but not an actual honest-to-god crop, especially when he _has actually_ used his own, personal honest-to-god crop on boys who got curious about it, ever since he had his hanging by his bedside all through freshman year of college, solely to freak out his midwestern Christian roommate. “You _hit horses?!_ ” Harry asks then, sounding positively horrified. “Louis!!!” 

Louis is a little…caught off guard. This is fucking whiplash, moving between bondage jokes and animal abuse accusations, and he’s just sort of standing there, wide-eyed, watching Harry bend down and pluck the crop up to look at up close, like he’s making sure it’s real. “We don’t actually _hurt them,_ ” Louis says once he gets his voice back, though it’s hoarse and reedy and unconvincing. “It’s more, like, the sound and whoosh of it. Good riders don’t rely on the crop for forward motion...we just sort of wave it around or tap the horse’s shoulder with it, to get that swish-cracking sound.” 

This does nothing to console Harry, whose eyes are getting ever wider, probably because he’s imagining Louis, like, beating the ponies with a dressage whip or something else improbable. Louis, who hasn’t felt horrible about any part of horseback riding in close to a decade, suddenly hates himself. He doesn’t want Harry to think he’s a pony beater, but he feels like if he defends himself too vehemently, he’ll seem suspicious. “How do you _know_ it doesn’t hurt?” Harry asks, voice harsh with disbelief. 

“I’ve hit myself with a crop plenty of times!” Louis explains, and it’s only sort of true, but regardless it doesn’t help his situation, it just makes him flush deeper as Harry’s eyes go wider, darker. Louis’s face is so hot he feels like he must be insanely red, every surge of yearning he feels for Harry, all the things he wants to do to him just written on his face, terrible and obvious. “It _really_ doesn’t hurt, not badly, it’s just loud,” Louis adds in a valiant attempt to bring this back to neutral territory, but it’s a wasted effort because Harry’s eyes get hard and resolute for a moment, and he chews on his lower lip for a few agonizing seconds before swallowing. 

“Show me,” Harry says, voice low. 

Louis’s heart fucking stops, blood roaring in his ears. He’s about to explode with a horrified _what?!_ before Harry hands him the crop, flicking it between his fingers like an amateur baton twirler. “Prove it.” 

“Um,” Louis starts, absolutely perishing where he stands, even as he reaches out to take the crop in slow motion, even as his mind is screaming a self-protective _stop!!! what the fuck are you doing?!_ at him, even as his stomach twists up before dropping. “You want me to _hit_ you?” he asks, and just _saying_ it makes heat coil up terribly in his gut, makes his cock stir in his breeches, which are revealing enough as it is. 

“Yeah, show me how you hit horses. Since you’re so sure it doesn’t hurt,” Harry answers, turning around and _bending_ over a saddle tree, just… _presenting_ his ass to Louis, back arched, head down. All the blood in Louis’s entire body rushes very, very suddenly to his dick, and he adjusts himself in what he hopes is a discreet manner, breath coming out sudden and fast and strangled. “C’mon,” Harry demands, shooting a dark-eyed look over his shoulder at Louis. 

“M’not gonna hit you, Harry,” he says weakly, because he’s _not_ , he _can’t_ , not under the guise of…whatever this is, anyway. He swallows thickly, clutching the crop with tight, sweaty fists. “You’re just gonna have to take my word that I’m not an asshole.” 

“I know you’re not an asshole! I just wanna know what it feels like, what the horses feel like,” Harry explains in a rush, voice reedy and…different, somehow, thin and frayed as he drops his head again, adjusting his weight so his perfect fucking ass shifts in his clingy black jeans, tight and soft and muscular all at once, and Louis _is about to faint and die_ , he’s certain of it. There’s no other explanation for the tightness in his throat, for the terrible rush of heat prickling to his skin, the clamminess to his hands. He practically whites out when Harry murmurs a muffled, “Please.” 

“Okay,” he says, voice under water, far away. His cock is half-hard, and he can hardly hear over his own heartbeat in his ears, but he doesn’t think he can say _no_ to Harry, not more than once, not now, with the way he’s bent so delicately over the saddle tree and flushed up the back of his neck like every one of Louis’s fantasies come to life.Louis wants to bite him there; he wants to hit the curve of Harry’s ass with his open palm so much he can almost feel the sting resounding up his wrist _already_. He gathers himself, sweating as he raises the crop shakily before bringing it down on the outside of Harry’s thigh with a firm but gentle swat. It probably doesn’t even smart, but Harry flinches a little anyway, breath falling out in a messy huff. 

“Oh,” he says, like he’s surprised, “you did it.” 

“You _told me to do it_ ,” Louis reminds him, voice nothing but a defensive scrape. _You made me do it...this is your fault,_ he thinks desperately, tightening his grip along the braided leather handle of the crop since his hand can't shake as much in a fist. “Does it hurt?” he forces out. 

“No-oooo,” Harry says, molasses slow and sort of drugged out, dreamy, like he’s not sure whether it hurt or not. Louis hangs onto the extended syllable, heart in his throat. “Do you _really_ do it that gently? I hardly felt that, and I’m a person. Would that even matter to a horse?” Harry asks, and that’s _mock_ innocence. It _has_ to be. 

“ _Well_ , it depends on the horse,” Louis explains, throat thick as his voice is thin. “Sometimes that’s all it takes.” 

“Do it like I’m a stubborn horse,” Harry says, looking over his shoulder. For a boy making demands he looks strangely uncertain, brows knit and cheeks flushed, swaying a little like a wavering flame. “I feel like you’re holding back. Like you’re afraid to hurt me.” 

“Of _course,_ I’m holding back,” Louis hisses, crossing his arms. “I don’t hurt horses, and I don’t want to hurt you! I’m trying to _demonstrate_ -“

“ _No_ , you aren’t, you’re trying to shut me up and change the subject instead of _truly_ allowing me to get the full horse experience, Lewis,” he says, so fucking _insistently_ and wobbly at the same time, and Louis doesn’t feel steady either, in fact, Louis feels like he’s lost at sea and drowning, like he’s been suddenly and magically transported to some alternate timeline where this sort of thing happens to real people. He has no fucking _idea_ what’s going on or what this means, all he knows is that Harry is bent in half and begging to be smacked with a riding crop, that there are a lot of things he does that Louis can brush away or write off as normal and misguided and merely confusing because Harry is weird, but _this_? Louis can’t make sense of it. There’s _no way_ this is some innocent, accidental thing. 

He doesn’t know what to _do_ about it, though, doesn't know if Harry’s pushing him because he can tell this is a direction he wants to be pushed, or if he’s pushing him because he _wants this_ so badly that he’s lost all restraint and subtlety. Louis doesn’t _know_ ; he’s hard and he’s aching and he’s holding a crop and staring at the round, perfect target of Harry’s ass. “It doesn’t have to be weird if you don’t make it weird,” Harry says then, and that, _that_ changes everything. 

Louis remembers the overnight hike, the salty sweetness of Harry’s breath on his own lips, hungry and wanting and crackling with possibility until Harry _mentioned his fucking sister_. He remembers every time he wondered if something was going to happen between them before Harry suddenly recoiled, making him question every moment leading up to this one, wonder if he was reading too much into their dynamic, if he was crazy. All the times Harry was _flirting_ , until he suddenly wasn’t.

And that’s what this is: a blatant fucking flirtation. A _proposition_ , even, followed by some weak cop-out that makes Louis feel guilty for wanting more. For a split-second, Louis’s so hurt he’s almost mad, but then he remembers how _searching_ Harry’s voice always sounds in these moments, how carefully he looks at Louis, like he’s watching for something, waiting. Before he remembers Zayn calling him out on being scared, on being stagnant, paralyzed. Then the surge of anger is washed away by an electric rush of _hope_. Maybe Harry doesn’t make sense because he’s casting a line and pulling it back, and Louis, maybe _Louis_ , has been too wrapped up in his own mess of insecurities that he’s been incapable of biting.

“Fine,” he snaps, raising the crop deliberately, guts in knots. He brings it down swiftly enough that it zings through the air before it cracks down on the meat of Harry’s thigh, making him lurch forward, yelping before gasping. “Hurt?” Louis asks lightly, stopping himself from reaching out and steadying them both with a firm hand on Harry’s lower back, where his shirt has ridden up a little. He’s dazed, so turned on he’s dizzy, and he wants _skin_ , skin and breath and skin. 

“Not that bad, mostly loud,” Harry mumbles. “That would get me going, though,” he adds, head bowed, voice so soft it’s nearly inaudible from where it’s muffled against the inside of his arm. “If I were a horse,” he tacks on to the end, like an afterthought. 

“Oh, if you were a horse,” Louis says, voice sharp but high, lilting. He feels insane, but he has to _do_ something, he has to meet Harry halfway, at least, to _know_ if this is really happening.

“Yeah,” Harry says, voice so low it’s barely anything at all. Louis wonders if he’s turned on or just overwhelmed, if he reached around and felt between Harry’s plump thighs if he’d be able to make out the hard line of his erection, heat bleeding through denim, burning him. He swallows a mouthful of saliva, and Harry asks, “Um, is that where you use it on the horses? Their thighs? or, like, back legs or whatever?” 

Louis inhales sharply, heart pounding. “Usually the shoulder, since I’m holding the crop alongside the reins,” he explains in a hush, showing Harry how he would have a rein in each hand, the crop resting in front of the knee flap of the saddle. “Unless the horse is being _truly_ lazy, and I’ve asked a million times…then I’ll put both reins in one hand and reach back behind me and give him a good swat on the ass with the other.”

“Oh,” Harry says breathlessly, hiding his face in his bicep, which is so strained against the saddle as he braces himself that it’s trembling, flickering in a sheen of sweat and dust, and Louis has never wanted anything as badly as he wants to take Harry Styles in his arms, shove him up against the tack room wall, and fuck his perfect mouth open with his tongue. He’s beside himself with wanting it, breath coming out fast and hard like he just fucking ran a marathon, and Harry must _know_ , he must be able to tell what this is doing to him. Maybe that’s why he lets out the noise he does, a wordless groan on the tail end of an exhalation before he asks, “Does that work, um, like, better?” 

It’s a fucking _flimsy_ thing to say, the weakest excuse Louis has ever heard, and finally, _finally,_ he can see through Harry Styles, through the toffee and sunlight and sweetness, to where there’s an _eighteen-year-old boy_ who probably _likes_ him and doesn’t know how to show it, how to do anything about it. Something crumbles inside Louis, and before he can think better of it, he murmurs, “You want me to use this on your ass, Harry?” 

“ _Louis_ ,” he says emphatically, hips shifting in the air, grinding against nothing as his head lolls helplessly. “Please.” 

“Fuck,” Louis breathes, teeth chattering he’s so overwhelmed, so wrecked and terrified and desperate to see Harry like this, arching his strong back and saying _please_.

Louis raises his arm and brings the crop down _hard_ on Harry’s left ass cheek, so hard it undulates, so hard he lurches forward, crying out against his arm, voice muffled by his own skin. It’s the hottest thing Louis has ever heard in his life, and he needs to hear it again, _has_ to. He inhales raggedly, bracing his hand squarely in the center of Harry’s bent back, and does it again. Harry sobs, arching and pushing up into the pain, hips rolling beautifully in the air. Louis does it again before he even recovers, loving the way be balks, he buckles. 

Louis’s heart is pounding so hard, he almost misses the terrible, life-ending sound of a whistle blowing in the distance. 

It bleats once, and he ignores it, but the second time makes Harry snap his head up, looking around frantically before scrambling to stand upright, cupping the front of his _obviously tented_ jeans with his hands. The sound catches up to Louis even as he stares at Harry in an absolute haze, and then his blood ices over. _Ben Fucking Winston_. “Oh, my _god_ ,” Harry mumbles, a mess of uncoordinated limbs as he struggles to stand, look normal, and cover himself at the same time, and if Louis wasn’t so stunned and thrilled to know he _turned Harry Styles on_ , he would be more concerned about Ben, would be trying to do the same pitiful pantomime of nonchalance. 

Instead, he plops himself down onto a tack trunk as Harry leans awkwardly against a saddle hanging from a low peg because he doesn’t actually know how to sit on one. When Ben busts in, they seem like two guys just hanging out, chatting about...horses or whatever. Or, at least, Louis hopes they do. He knows he’s flushed, and he can hardly look at Harry to confirm, but he suspects he might be, too. 

“Are you boys _getting high_ in here?” Ben growls, curling a fist around his whistle in outrage. Louis stares up at him with what he hopes are wide, innocent eyes, but he must look guilty as hell because Ben sighs at their silence, sounding extremely exhausted and disappointed, face pained. Louis blinks uselessly at him because he can’t fucking look at Harry, not when he knows Harry was just _hard_ , hard in his jeans from _Louis_ hitting him with a _crop_. Louis can’t think about or process anything beyond this scorching miracle, which has left his voice dead in his throat. He can’t even begin to defend them when Ben says, “I really, really don’t want to send you guys home. You’re two of my best counselors, but marijuana is strictly contraband.” 

“Ben, we aren’t getting high,” Harry _finally_ speaks up, voice still kind of choked and low and hot. Louis’s stomach drops. “We’re just talking. M’afraid of horses, and Louis brought me down here to work on my fear because it’s, like…inconvenient.” 

Ben’s face softens a little, like he’s at least relieved he doesn’t have to fire anyone. “Louis, you aren’t supposed to bring counselors outside the horse unit to the barn. This is a liability...you know better.”

“I was just…I left a jacket down here, so we stopped in to get it on our way down to the lake when he mentioned his fear, and I was, like, ‘Oh, let’s hang out then, it'll be good for you.’ Honestly, I was just trying to help. It’s not a big deal, and I won’t do it again,” Louis invents on the spot, watching with mild amusement as Ben’s brow furrows in astonishment because he’s so fucking used to Louis talking back and refusing to take responsibility for things that he’s visibly confused. Louis grins cheekily then, because he can't act _too_ weird without giving himself away, so Ben looks back to Harry, satisfied with the amount of lip Louis’s giving him, apparently. 

“Harry, we need you up at the mess hall. Someone was picking on Naomi Anderson, and she’s crying and won’t talk to anyone or tell us who did it, but she asked for you specifically,” Ben explains, totally ignoring Louis now, which is fine because Louis can hardly breathe and is on the verge of death and would appreciate it if Ben Winston didn’t witness him in such a _vulnerable_ state. 

“Oh! Oh, no, poor Naomi, she’s so sweet,” Harry exclaims, standing up and nearly tripping on his way over to Ben. “I’ll head over right away,” he promises, shooting a look over his shoulder at Louis that can only be described as _terror-stricken_. His eyes are wide and blown with pupil, two spots of the rosiest red on his cheeks, lip in his teeth, and it’s _awful_ , how he looks so ruined and so sexy, and Louis hasn’t even _done_ anything to him. Not really. Not _yet_. “See you, Louis,” he says then, voice scraping low and honey-sweet in his throat before he turns to leave with Ben. And then, as easy as anything, Harry’s gone. 

Louis hangs his head, letting out the breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding. His heart pounding, cock still half-hard and confused, hot against his thigh, hands trembling as he presses them to the planes of his quads. He sits alone in the tack room for a long time, breathing in and out, watching the dust swirl lazily in the beam of sunlight cutting in from the breezeway. _Fuck_ he thinks, swallowing so loud his throat clicks. _Fuck_.


	6. Chapter 6

The rest of the day is _agonizingly_ slow. Louis’s going absolutely insane, replaying what happened in the tack room over and over in his head on a scorching, fevered loop, wondering if he imagined it, if he’s crazy, if he’s been _wrong_ this whole time, and he has a real, actual chance with Harry Styles. 

As the evening carries on, however, Louis starts to second-guess himself. The second-guessing turns into triple-guessing, which turns into quadruple-guessing, and by the time Louis actually _sees_ Harry again at Sunday dinner (which is always, always sloppy joes, and Louis positively _loathes_ sloppy joes), he’s pretty sure he gravely misread the entirety of The Crop Incident (as he’s begun referring to it internally). First off, Harry doesn’t sit with them at dinner, opting instead for _Perrie_ and her friends, head bent as he titters away with them, dimpling all over the place and wiping sloppy joe off his chin with the back of his hand and actually looking sexy while he does it, which is fucking miraculous because Louis thinks sloppy joes are the least sexy substance on the planet. 

Harry also won’t even _look_ at Louis, which is…well, it’s sort of devastating, actually. He keeps trying to catch his eye, pushing his boiled peas around on his plate, appetite obliterated by sloppy joe smell and rejection. If that’s what this is. Louis isn’t even sure, he just knows that Harry is _not_ at the table with the rest of 14C, that they haven’t shared a single second of eye contact since The Crop Incident, and that he’s going a little crazy. Crazy enough that even _Niall_ can tell something’s up, returning from getting his _third sloppy joe_ (one is vile, but three is an abomination) and frowning at Louis, nudging him with his knee under the table as he sits down. “Did you and Harry have a fight or something? Do you know why he’s all the way over there?” 

“We did not have a fight,” Louis grumbles, decidedly spearing a pea with the miniature tong on his spork. It explodes grossly. “And I have no idea.” 

His response is clipped enough that Niall decidedly leaves him alone, shrugging and turning to obliterate his sloppy joe. Zayn kicks him ungently in the ankle and shoots him a concerned look over the tabletop, eyes narrowed, searching. _Did you tell him?_ he mouths to Louis, and for some reason the ambiguity of it _hurts_ , sends a stab of pain through Louis’s gut, radiating out from his solar plexus. He doesn’t even know what he’s being asked--did he tell Harry that he likes him, or did he tell Harry about Liam and Zayn’s cabin tryst? Either of these things could theoretically result in Harry deciding to boycott 14C’s table, as far as Zayn’s concerned. Louis shakes his head solemnly, hoping that it’s enough for Zayn to drop it. There’s a moment or two of Zayn staring critically, brow arched, before he shrugs and slides out of his seat. “M’getting another Nesquik, anyone want anything? Louis?” He probably thinks he’s being clever, as Nesquik is one of Louis’s main food groups. 

“No,” Louis murmurs, rubbing his face with his palms, his skin feeling hot to the touch from sunburn. Fever. Grief. He doesn’t know. He can’t eat (even Nesquik); his insides are twisted up, and every time he steals a glance across the mess hall to Harry and Perrie’s table, the knot in his insides tightens a little further. 

By the time dinner’s over and everyone lines up to head to campfire, Louis has managed to convince himself that he’s actually, legitimately sick with the flu or something. The prolonged proximity to the horror that is sloppy joes has made him too ill to go to campfire. He just _can’t do it_ ; the mere _idea_ of playing rhythm master and singing “Country Roads” makes him want to _die_. He’s probably going to puke all over the table if he devotes much more thought to it, so in a feat of combined desperation and brilliance, he walks over to the chief counselors’ table and pokes Ben Winston in the shoulder. 

“I know I’m not on your good list right now,” he says, “but is there any way I can skip out on campfire tonight? I feel like I’m getting sick, and I’m still catching up on sleep from the overnight hike. I could, like…really use some time alone.” 

Louis must look truly terrible because Ben doesn’t even fight him on it, he just shrugs and waves a hand in the air, dismissing Louis. “Sure, get some rest. We need all our counselors at the very top of their game, especially the horse unit. Stop by the infirmary on the way out if you need ibuprofen.” 

Louis has, like, ten defenses prepared, and he’s a little stunned that he doesn’t have to use any of them. It must be a testament to how obvious his condition is, how _palpably_ he’s suffering. “Um, thanks,” he says awkwardly, turning on his heel and feeling like he got away with something tremendous, even though he’s so queasy his stomach is literally turning every time he sees a remotely tall human with remotely brown hair that could theoretically be Harry Styles as his gaze does a paranoid sweep over the mess hall. 

As he leaves, he hears Ben shout to him, “I expect you to be good and healthy come tomorrow morning, Tomlinson!” 

Louis nods, uncharacteristically stiff as he sneaks out the side door and heads back up to the cabins, eyes adjusting to the sudden, chilly darkness, Vans crunching on gravel. He’s done this walk a hundred times before but never alone, and something about the eerie quiet of it has him jumpy, nervous. He can hear animals rustling on either side of the trail, the distant hoot of an owl somewhere above him, and usually these sounds just sort of fade into the constant chorus of crickets, but tonight, they’re sinister, distinct, _spooky_. Louis’s practically jogging by the time he makes it to 14C, flinging himself through the door and locking it behind him, a mess of clammy sweat and nausea and weird, half-formed fears that wolves are going to shoot out of the darkness and latch onto his ankles or something, like he’s Belle from _Beauty and the Beast_. 

His eyes linger pitifully on Harry’s empty bunk as he climbs into his own, too lazy to even put on pajamas after kicking miserably out of his clothes. He just lies there face down in his briefs, hiding in his pillow like an absolute mess and wondering _how the fuck_ Harry could have bent over a saddle tree and begged Louis to hit him only a few hours before and then _deliberately ignore him all through dinner_. It doesn’t add up, but Louis’s too nauseated and hurt by it to think up a logical explanation, to try and fill in the cracks. His feelings are bubbling up like a flood, rushing into all the fissures of this situation and washing away any reason or rationality he might have had before. Now it just just _stings_ , stings purely and blindly, so much so that he’s unable to think of anything, save for how fucking _foolish_ he’s been about this whole fucking Harry Situation. 

_Being in love makes you an absolute idiot_ , Louis thinks to himself, wiping his eyes with the heels of his hands because his eyes are leaking no matter how badly he doesn’t want them to. And he fucking _hates_ himself for crying about this at all, when it’s his own damned _fault_ for getting hopeful, for thinking this could go anywhere. Louis sniffles, indulging his self-pity while he goes over everything that’s happened between him and Harry since he arrived at camp, every loaded moment, every electric touch, every dead end. He sniffles and leaks until he can’t sniffle or leak anymore (he think’s it's one step below crying; he’s too nauseous to effectively _bawl_ ), and then he drags his shaky, sore body out of bed to shut off the light. 

Louis pretends to be asleep when the other boys get back from campfire, turned to the wall with his sleeping bag zipped up as far as it can go, head bent so no one can see his (probably hideously puffy) face, even if they look for it. 

“Louis?” Liam asks gently, as everyone else kicks off their shoes and undresses, a series of familiar rustles. “Ben said you were sick...are you faking?” 

“Think he’s sleeping,” Zayn murmurs. “Let him sleep...if he’s sleeping, he’s not faking. Leave him alone.” 

“Fuck, I hope _I_ don’t get it,” Niall grumbles. “I hate getting colds in the summer. It’s the absolute worst when you’re burning up, and it’s _hot_ outside.”

And Harry…Harry says nothing. Louis tenses up involuntarily as he climbs into the bunk below him, rubber mattress whining under his shifting weight, cautious and quiet, like he doesn’t want to wake Louis. He imagines Harry, his nose wrinkled in a grimace as he makes more noise than he wants to, his hair an oily, smoky mess like it always is after campfire. Louis’s chest suddenly gets so tight, heart thudding in time with the waves of self-deprecating nausea washing over his body. He wants him so _badly_ , even now, when he’s sick and wounded. He’s probably never going to stop wanting Harry Styles. 

He waits for Harry to say something, anything. But he doesn’t. 

Someone hits the lights again, and Louis lies in silence, unable to sleep, move, sniffle, or leak. He just sort of aches, willing his mind to quit uselessly replaying things he doesn’t want to think about anymore. 

—-

Louis must end up nodding off into a hazy half-sleep eventually because he’s startled awake by the singular sound of someone crying out in pain. He sits bolt-upright, heart pounding, clammy cold sweat on his brow. He’d been having a nightmare, some awful stress dream about giving riding lessons to a bunch of rich, snooty kids who kept insulting his form in the saddle, with Harry in the distance, standing on the pipe-corral fence and watching him get verbally abused by spoiled children. The fragments of the dream are still clinging to him as he looks around frantically, throat tight and aching as he swallows nothing, unable to make out any shapes in the dark. He’s just a confused mess of firing impulses and aimless fear until he hears it again, _Harry’s_ voice snagging unmistakably around a low, sleep-foggy syllable. “Fuck,” he mumbles, shifting under Louis’s bunk. Then, “ _Ouch_.”

_He’s hurt!_ Louis thinks in a panic, shaking his head to clear any residual nightmare consciousness, turning to peer down over the edge of his bunk, even though he can’t make anything out in the dark. He doesn’t care that Harry ignored him all through dinner anymore, that things are confusing and muddled and melted together right now. “Harry?!” he calls in a hush, sounding so foreign even to himself, high and hoarse and half-asleep. “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah…yeah, I just…fuck. I dunno. M’bleeding?” Harry mumbles out, voice all thickness and confusion, and before Louis can even stop himself, he’s sliding off the top bunk and landing clumsily on the floor with cold feet, stumbling toward Harry, lowering himself to his knees at the edge of the bed. He’s not even _thinking_ ; he’s exhausted, and everything is moving slowly and softly, and it could be a dream, still, he’s not sure. He just knows that if Harry’s bleeding, it’s not _okay_ , he wants to fix it, he wants to tourniquet every single thing that’s making Harry hurt. 

“What? Where?” he asks gently, and he can’t see anything save for Harry’s wreck of hair, his Stones shirt with the tear in it, the whites of his eyes glistening and wet and lovely. “Let me help,” he adds then, because it feels imperative in that moment to let Harry know that he’s just trying to _help_ , that he isn’t doing this for any reason other than it upsets him to think of Harry in pain, that he _knows_ they didn’t look at each other all through dinner, he _knows_ he went back to the cabin to hide and feel sorry for himself, but none of that seems real now, not when Harry’s bleeding. 

Harry laughs, a cut-off thing full of air, lacking humor. Like he’s nervous. “I think one of the safety pins in my shirt came undone and stabbed me,” he mumbles, lying back and pushing his shirt up with his big hand, exposing his belly. 

Everything’s hazy, unreal, moving in slow motion. Louis’s eyes are starting to adjust to the darkness, and he can see the tremor to Harry’s fingers, the pinprick of blood like a blot of black ink at the tip of a fountain pen, welling against golden skin that looks silver in the moonlight leaking in through the adjacent window. Louis’s breath catches in his throat, and it occurs to him how _absurd it is_ that Harry has been sleeping in this T-shirt with Louis’s two safety pins still attached. Without even realizing it, Louis reaches out. He doesn’t mean to touch Harry; he’s just checking to see if he’s real, maybe, but before he can stop himself, his fingers are brushing against the smooth heat of Harry’s stomach, right on the cut of his oblique. The skin jumps under him, Harry’s abdominals flexing as he lets out the quietest, softest huff of air. 

“Why were you sleeping in that?” Louis asks, almost to himself, so thoroughly in a daze now that he’s _touching Harry_ , his bare skin where he’s hot and heaving with breath, just above the coarse trail of hair beneath his navel. 

“I know,” Harry whimpers, trembling, skin prickling up into goosebumps under Louis’s touch even though he’s not cold (Louis knows because he can feel the heat radiating off him in waves). “It’s stupid,” Harry adds as Louis nods almost imperceptibly closer, close enough that he can smell Harry’s skin, sticky-sweaty and sleep-warm and drowsy and perfect. His mouth waters, and Harry whispers, “I’ve been wearing it every night since you pinned it.” 

And it’s not a confirmation of anything, really. It’s not a green light or a _please_. It’s vague and soft around the edges, like ice cream melting down a sugar cone, coming apart into something soft and sweet. But Louis’s so, _so_ fucking tired, and it’s the middle of the fucking night, so for some reason, it makes sense, and he just _knows_. Knows it’s okay for him to keep touching. 

Louis spreads his palm over Harry’s abs, feeling the flicker of muscle, the rhythmless huff of his diaphragm as his breath staggers out in nervous gusts. Harry’s skin is _burning_ , so fucking smooth and hot as Louis touches him. He should stop; he should ask Harry what he means, but he can’t speak, can’t think with that skin under his fingertips. His mind has turned to static, and he can’t form a single thought beyond how very badly he wants Harry’s blood in his mouth. He stares and stares and stares with watering eyes until he bends his head in slow motion and affixes his mouth to Harry’s stomach, to the the tiny wound beaded in black. 

Harry arches up off the bed and into the pressure of Louis’s mouth, gasping, writhing. Louis sweeps his tongue over the pinprick, registering the tang of sweat and skin and and copper before he even realizes what he’s doing, how Harry’s reacting. For a split-second, terror washes over him, and he freezes, but before he can even think of reeling back, Harry’s reaching for him, tangling a hand in his hair, and holding him fast, so he _can’t_ pull away, even if he wants to. 

He doesn’t want to, though; there’s nothing he wants _less_. He groans helplessly against Harry’s belly, sucking desperately at his skin, tasting blood and salt and metal, dizzy with arousal, his cock fattening up and pulsing in his briefs as he grinds reflexively against the edge of the mattress. 

Harry isn’t pulling away. He’s bucking up into the heat of Louis’s mouth, hissing and breathing in great, labored breaths, wincing at the sting, the scour of Louis’s stubble. Louis wants to bite him, so he does, opening his mouth wider and getting his teeth in taut flesh, heart stopping as Harry gasps so prettily. He still isn’t sure what this _means_ , how aware Harry is about what’s going on--if he’s thought about this before, or if Louis is just a hot, wet mouth in the dark that feels good. He doesn’t even _care_ , though. He can’t, with everything being this smoldering and dreamy; he feels _drugged_ on how good Harry smells, the spice and smoke and fire and salt, the flavor of his skin burning on the back of his tongue, and as long as Harry lets him, he’s going to keep tasting. 

Louis drags his mouth lower, wet and open and hungry as he nips down Harry’s happy trail and sucks the musky sweat from his hair, palming tentatively on Harry’s thigh, where he can feel the heat of his arousal burning just centimeters from the spread of his fingers. He’s psyching himself up to move his hand onto Harry’s cock when Harry makes a fist in his hair and tugs urgently, detaching Louis’s lips with a lewd smacking sound that’s entirely too loud for this room full of sleeping boys. “ _God_ , can I kiss you, can I?” Harry whines mindlessly into the night, head lolling on his pillow. A single moment passes in which Louis’s stomach plummets so hard and so suddenly that he makes a sound, involuntary and choked out and high. Then he’s clambering up into Harry’s bunk on his hands and knees, lowering himself down onto the frantic bucking heat of his body, and silencing him with his lips, thinking, _please, god, finally._

His brain fires, short circuits, and then whites out in a haze of overwhelmed static as Harry’s soft, plush mouth opens up for him. Then, there’s nothing but spit and fire, the hottest and wettest most maddening thing. 

Harry is a sloppy kisser, and Louis loves it that way, loves that he doesn’t have to wait long at all for the filthy feeling of Harry’s tongue flicking against his own, that he doesn’t have to worry about being too much, too eager because Harry is _so_ into it, so _hungry_ , sucking and chewing on Louis’s lips between gales of frantic breath. He tastes so fucking _good_ that Louis wants to sob into his mouth, has to fight a surge of tears at the way Harry is kissing him, so desperate and unafraid. “God, god,” Harry mumbles a few times, like he’s praying, lips swollen and slick as Louis nips at them, opens them up. 

He’s on top of Harry and between his splayed legs, flush enough that he can feel the thick line of Harry’s cock pressing into his bare thigh, so _big_ and so searing, the hottest fucking thing he’s ever had against his skin, and he can’t…he can’t believe that this is happening. That Harry Styles is kissing him back, holding him tight with his hands splayed wide and firm across his shoulders, groaning into the messy slide of their mouths like there aren’t three other boys in the room to disturb. 

At some point, Harry lets him go long enough for Louis to shift his weight and grind down properly into the solid heat of Harry’s body, showing him how hard he is, too, what he’s fucking _doing_ to him. “Fuck, oh, my god,” Harry whimpers, head falling back so that his throat extends, encouraging Louis to lick down the lovely ripple of it, to suck at the thunder of Harry’s pulse. 

“Shhh,” he murmurs, rubbing himself against Harry’s thigh, breath catching because his briefs are all wet where they’ve been trapped against his cockhead, and he can feel the slickness shifting, smearing. It’s so fucking dirty, and he can’t _believe_ how turned on he is, how close and crazy Harry has him just from kissing, grinding. “You’ll wake everyone up.” 

“Please just kiss me,” Harry whispers, nodding into Louis’s cheek, tonguing mindlessly to try and get Louis to tilt up and catch his mouth again. Louis is so _moved_ by that, his heart fluttering in his chest as he whines a little in his throat, turning his head to give Harry what he needs, kissing him hard and deep like he’s been wanting to, been dreaming of. Harry whimpers into it and slides his hands down Louis’s back, all rough and possessive, like he has to touch every inch of him, hold the whole of Louis in his hands. As he moves his palms over the curve of Louis’s ass, he very nearly _cries out_ , voice muffled by Louis’s tongue and teeth. “Oh, my _god_ ,” he keens, squeezing, thumbing under the waistband of Louis’s briefs and dipping just the tip of his index finger into the crack of his ass, breath catching as he does it, cock twitching palpably against Louis’s thigh. _Fuck_. “Jesus christ.” 

Louis rolls his hips and arches his back, fitting himself into the wide splay of Harry’s palms like he knows Harry wants him to. Guys _always_ love his ass, and it’s usually a problem because Louis’s sensitive and hates pain and can only ever relax enough to be fucked when he’s really, really into someone, which is basically never. That doesn’t feel like it matters now; he wants Harry to feel him there, wants to give Harry _everything_ , every inch of his body and his insides, even if it hurts. _Love you_ , he thinks brokenly, flicking his tongue against the roof of Harry’s mouth before letting him suck on it in greedy little pulses. _You don’t know it yet, and maybe you never will, maybe this is a one-off thing, but I love you, and I’d let you fuck me. I’d let you do anything you wanted to me, anything at all._

Harry rubs his palms over Louis’s ass, making fists in the meat of it, pulling him closer so that their cocks rub together in a mess of heat. “ _Fuck, Louis_ ,” he grinds out again, loud enough that _someone_ hears it and stirs in their sleep, rolling over to make the plaintive whine of a rubber mattress cut through the room, clear and obvious. Harry and Louis freeze, locked up, foreheads pressed together and adhered by a thin layer of perspiration. They stare at each other, eyes wide and breath coming out in tempered huffs, mingling in the tight space between them. Louis is coming apart, eyes fluttering closed because he can smell the sleepy sweetness of Harry’s exhalations, smell his sweat and the campfire smoke in his hair, see the flicker of his tongue as he sweeps it over his lower lip, wet and shining, and he can’t even _care_ that someone is awake in this room. He just wants to kiss Harry Styles because apparently he _can_ , he's allowed to, Harry _wants_ it. He drops his head and mouths over the turned up corner of Harry’s smile, pressing one, two, three tender kisses to Harry’s perfect lips before Harry’s licking up into him again, whimpering sudden and high and too loud. There’s the sound of a body rolling over again, and Liam’s drowsy voice mumbles something unintelligible. 

Louis curses, burying his face in the sweat-damp crease of Harry’s neck and inhaling. It’s dizzying; he smells so strong and boyish and unshowered, the best and sexiest thing, and Louis sucks hungrily at his throat for a few seconds before pulling away and whispering, “Can you keep quiet?" against the shell of Harry’s ear. 

Harry shudders, fingers flexing against the curve of Louis’s ass as he murmurs back a measured, “No. I don’t think so.” 

“God,” Louis mumbles, nodding into Harry’s hair and inhaling him again, rocking against his cock in stilted bucks. “Are you sure?” 

“Can we…can we go somewhere...the showers?” Harry stutters, and the mere suggestion makes a pulse of electricity zip down Louis’s spine, makes his cock twitch in his briefs. Fuck, he’s so fucking close; he’s trembling all over, and he can’t even imagine peeling himself off Harry’s body willingly, losing the heat of it. He’s trying to wade through the haze of conflicting desires when Harry exhales hotly against his ear, fidgeting as he admits, “I need to be able to say your name, to look at you, want to _see_ you Louis,” and _jesus_ , it’s so _raw_ , so vulnerable that Louis gasps. 

“Yeah, yeah, okay, the showers,” he whispers back, forcing himself to let go of Harry, roll over, and gingerly step out of the bunk, his cock feeling neglected and obscene where it’s tenting his briefs, a wet spot where the thin cotton is clinging to the crown. He cups himself carefully, standing on his tiptoes to fish a shirt out of his own bed. “C’mon,” he beckons to Harry, who’s stepping into his ugly Nike sandals, hair a wreck as he bends to pluck a single safety pin off the ground. 

“Found it,” he murmurs, closing it and setting it on his pillow. Then he flicks his gaze up to Louis, almost unreadable in the dark, black glittering eyes and a hot, dark smile full of promise, lopsided and twisted and bitable. Louis’s stomach is a mess of butterflies, dropping suddenly and quickly as Harry stands. “Okay, let’s go.” 

“Alright,” he whispers back, and together they creep out the door as quietly as possible, the sudden chill of dawn hitting fevered cheeks, the whole world spreading out before them like fresh snow, like an ocean, like possibility. Harry takes Louis’s hand in his own and laces their fingers. 

Louis fights a wild and reckless smile as they head off to the showers, palms flush.


	7. Chapter 7

They walk side by side in the fading blue darkness in tense silence, fingers tangled and hips bumping occasionally, loaded and intimate. Louis can’t stop his heart from fluttering at every touch, his gut an absolute tangle of ever-tightening knots, head bent and eyes fixed on the trail. He’s certain he’d be wondering if this was real if Harry’s hand wasn’t sweating against his own, his grip tight like an anchor, like he’s afraid to let go lest Louis float away. _I’m not going anywhere,_ he thinks, thumbing over Harry’s knuckles. _I’m here until you don’t want me anymore._

Louis keeps wanting to say something, but he doesn’t know what to say, how to even begin, especially now, when there’s nothing but the crunch of their shoes and the occasional coo of a mourning dove, quiet and haunting. He’s trying not to overthink anything, to worry about the future or where this is going or what Harry wants, instead focusing on the hot, certain pressure of Harry’s hand clutching his own, like something certain, even if it’s not. Louis will take this as it is. 

They finally make it to the showers, and Louis’s nearly shaking with anticipation, mouth dry and pulse speeding and cock chubbing back up in his damp briefs in anticipation. As he pushes the door open, Harry hovers close enough behind him that he can feel the humid huff of his breath against his neck, unsteady and scared, but once they’re inside, everything cracks. 

Harry is on him, untangling their hands so he can cup Louis’s face between his palms and pull him close, just as Louis spins him around and backs him up against a row of lockers, not even caring that they make a near-deafening crashing sound as Harry smacks up against them, loose and unresisting. 

They share breath for a moment, Harry’s thumbs digging into the hinge of Louis’s jaw, eyes wide and blown, blacker still as Louis forces his knee between Harry’s thighs to feel him where he’s hot and yearning. “Fuck,” Harry breathes, wetting his lips with his tongue, and Louis just looks at him for a few crackling seconds, this stunning impossible thing in front of him, temporarily suspended in space. “Can I kiss you again?” Harry asks. It comes out low and soft and dirty, and Louis just swallows and nods because he can’t wait for the amount of time it would take him to say, _You don’t have to ask me. You don’t have to ask for anything at all, it’s already yours...it has been for two years._

Harry whimpers and falls into him, his wet mouth opening up as Louis shoves him more firmly against the lockers with the whole of his body, all of their flat planes pushing and grinding together. Now that they aren’t in 14C, Harry’s even louder, gasping and groaning as they kiss, like Louis is something delicious, making a hundred broken sounds for Louis to swallow so greedily. 

And Louis is _so_ greedy; he can’t get enough of him. He’s touching Harry all over, mauling palms shoving up under the hem of his shirt and over his chest, his sides, the sweet swells of softness above the waistband of his boxers. “Jesus christ, Harry,” he groans out eventually as he cups him here, holding his hips and squeezing, pulling them so flush they stumble together, off balance. “Why didn’t you look at me last night, all through dinner?” he asks without meaning to, teeth against the cords in Harry’s neck, cock pulsing where it’s trapped between their bodies. “I was so worried…I thought you didn’t…that you regretted…,” he stumbles over his words, and Harry’s breath snags into a broken sound. 

“ _God_ , no,” he sighs, hands sliding down Louis’s neck and all over his shoulders, down his arms and back up to grip the tempered flex of his biceps. “If I had sat with you, looked at you…every single person in the mess hall would have known how badly I wanted you to fuck me,” he murmurs, thumbs digging into Louis’s inner elbow, sharp and biting, and _fuck_ , Louis can’t breathe, he’s gonna die, he’s gonna fucking keel over before he even gets Harry’s cock in his hand. “M’sorry,” Harry mumbles, nuzzling into Louis’s neck and lapping at it, graceless and wet, like he doesn’t care what’s in his mouth as long as it belongs to Louis. “Didn’t mean to scare you, not at all, just thought, thought you _knew,_ that you’d know why,” he slurs, hips stuttering against Louis in small, hungry bucks. “It’s the most obvious thing in the world,” he adds then, voice humming against Louis’s neck. 

_It’s not,_ Louis thinks, coughing out a clumsy, disbelieving laugh. He’s so turned on, he can’t talk, though; he wants so many things from Harry that he doesn’t even know where to start. He palms up the dip in Harry’s lower back as he kisses him hard and bruising and wet before nuzzling into the tangles behind his ear, murmuring a shattered, “You want me to fuck you?” 

Harry shudders, seizing up before rolling his hips against Louis’s thigh, hard and unmistakable. “ _Yes_ ,” he groans, reaching behind Louis to grab his ass and pull him close by it, encouraging him to thrust against him in a pantomime of fucking, dry and filthy and full of promise. Louis is falling apart, reduced to breath and trembles and white-hot static as he grinds Harry into the wall. 

“ _God_ , wanna fuck you so badly but not here, not in the locker room,” he whispers, even as he pushes Harry up against the wall with his hips, watching him keen and whimper and roll his head back, so desperate and willing. 

“I know,” Harry moans, face a wreck, “Just...let me suck you off...can I do that?” 

“ _Jesus christ_ ,” Louis grinds out, voice feather-light and so high it cracks as he crumbles into Harry’s shoulder, canting his hips away so he doesn’t come right fucking here and now, in a mess between their grinding, mostly clothed bodies. “Is that what you want?” he asks, hand moving up to close around Harry’s throat without even realizing it, squeezing a little just to feel the ripple as he swallows, struggles to breathe. 

“More than anything else, please, please,” Harry whines, voice so torn around the words that he sounds choked up, tear-tattered. 

“Fuck,” Louis sighs before he tilts up and catches Harry’s mouth, cupping his cheek in his palm and kissing him deep and filthy, mind an absolute wreck of fire and static as he considers what Harry’s fucking _lips_ will feel like around him. They’re so soft and slick and swollen already that Louis can hardly stay upright and imagine them anywhere near his cock. He kisses Harry until he gets impatient, sucking on Louis’s lower lip and then his tongue, bobbing his head like it’s his cock, hips shifting against him in graceless bucks. 

“ _Please_ ,” Harry begs, nails in Louis’s back, sharp and punishing, and Louis can’t say no to that, he’s only human. 

He goes slack and lets Harry push him up against the lockers instead, switching their positions so that Louis has metal biting into his shoulders, cold and shocking. It’s a good distraction from the devastating image of Harry sinking so easily to his knees, eyes half-lidded and cheeks a violent red, his palms reverently splayed over Louis’s thighs as he looks up at him. There’s a moment of searing, agonizing eye contact before Harry looks at his cock, the lewd strain of it against his briefs, the shape and curve of his shaft obvious through the threadbare fabric. Harry whimpers, a line through his brow as he nuzzles up between Louis’s thighs, inhaling him, eyes fluttering behind his lids. “Oh, god,” Louis groans,, one hand fisting helplessly in his own shirt as the other cards clumsily through Harry’s hair. “You’re so beautiful,” he says then, and he doesn’t mean to, not really, it just sort of falls out. 

If Harry hears, he doesn’t indicate it at all, too busy rubbing his cheek all over Louis’s cock through his briefs, teasing and electric and so much more intimate than any blowjob Louis has ever experienced in his life. He can’t fucking believe this; it’s the stuff of fantasies, the boy he’s been obsessing over for two fucking years _kissing him back_ , on his _knees_ for him. It’s almost too much to process, so Louis just stares, breath heaving out as Harry presses small, open-mouthed kisses down his length, breath hot and damp through the thin layer of cotton, agonizingly tender. “God,” Harry whispers against the skin of his thigh as he thumbs into the fresh wet spot in Louis underwear where he’s leaking from his slit. He licks his lips and then opens his mouth over Louis’s cockhead, sucking the slick of precum from the fabric, and _jesus christ,_ Louis whites out, hips arching involuntarily off the wall to chase the heat of Harry’s mouth. 

He endures it for what he thinks is an impressive amount of time, rolling his hips and crying out and trembling as Harry nurses him through his briefs, rubbing his palms up and down his quadriceps in desperate, hungry strokes. And he could probably come like this, in his underwear while Harry sucks gently, aimlessly, and selfishly, but _thank god,_ Harry takes mercy on him and pulls off, mouth wet and messy, eyes blown black with pupil as his gaze flashes up to Louis for a solitary, searing moment. “Can I?” he asks again, as he hooks his thumbs in Louis’s waistband, fingers trembling with restraint. 

Louis laughs, he can’t help it, the absurdity of the situation suddenly hitting him square in the chest: Harry Styles checking in with him every step of the way, like _Louis_ is the one who’s confusing, the one who might stop in the middle of this and change his mind. He winds a curl of Harry’s hair around his finger and says, “Yes,” low and soft, a grin splitting his face so fiercely his cheeks ache with it. 

Harry breathes out a shuddering sigh as he pulls Louis’s wet briefs over his cock, gasping before carefully, ritualistically rolling them down the planes of his thighs to fall and pool on the ground. “Oh, god,” he breathes, thumbing up the underside of Louis’ cock before wrapping his fingers around his length, slowly and gently, brow furrowed. Then he licks his lips and bends forward, pressing a single wet, searing kiss to the very tip, tongue swirling, face a wreck of lines, of overwhelm. 

Louis cries out. His thighs spasm, and a sensation fires in his stomach that’s so intense it’s almost painful, white-hot and nervy. “Harry,” he says, because he needs to say his name, to prove that this is happening, that it’s real.

Harry moans his way through the whole thing, eyes closed as he mouths all over Louis, sloppy and wet like his kisses, hungry, like he can’t get enough of the taste. Louis feels his teeth more than once, which is usually a cause for alarm or a turn off, but it’s so _good_ with Harry, just another way in which he’s lost in what he’s doing, too desperate for finesse. He eventually quits luxuriating and makes a fist at the base, taking the rest of Louis’s cock down his throat and sucking deep, then deeper, until he gags and a froth of saliva spills over his own grip. 

It’s so wet and so hot; Harry’s mouth is absolutely _impossible_ , and Louis has been wanting this for so fucking long, he can’t hold on, he doesn’t know how. “M’really close,” he warns, even though he’s pretty sure Harry is the type of boy who swallows. “Like, really, really close,” he adds, voice so reedy and full of breath. 

Harry groans around him, bobbing his head and lashing his tongue at the underside, pulling back before taking him deep again, and his lips are so obscenely red as they stretch that Louis can’t stand it. He grits his teeth and cedes to the feeling, fucking back into Harry’s slick mouth as he comes. Harry makes a wrecked sound, swallowing like Louis knew he would, throat rippling and mouth overflowing in a pearlescent froth because Louis hasn’t come in forever, and it’s a big load. 

Even well after Louis has finished shooting off in pulses, softening and shrinking back into his foreskin, Harry stays on his knees. He laps all over him with barely-there flicks of his tongue, sucking all the come he missed from Louis’s pubes, thoroughly and deliberately. Louis watches through his lashes, dazed and overstimulated but too tired and in love to do more about it than wince, half-sure he’s dreamt this whole perfect boy up and not even caring. Eventually, Harry tucks Louis back into his briefs and stands unsteadily, cupping him through the fabric and murmuring, “You have the prettiest cock,” as he pants heavily against Louis’s neck.

Louis doesn’t know what to say to that; no one has ever told him he has a pretty cock before, and it’s a compliment that seems distinctly Harry in its softness and candor, and he’s fucking in love with Harry, so his heart seizes up, and tears spring unexpectedly to his eyes. He thumbs over Harry’s ruined lips, turning his face into his hair and breathing him in shakily. “Thank you,” he says eventually, voice wrecked. He coughs, then adds honestly, “So that was literally the best blowjob of my entire life.” 

Harry reels back, eyes wide and stunned. “Really?!” he asks, looking delighted, dimples popping, and _oh_ , his eyes are so bright and so green, and Louis can smell his own come on his breath. He’s so _fucking_ gorgeous in every way that Louis has nothing left in his lungs to exhale. 

“Yes, really,” he murmurs, quirking up an eyebrow. “It was unbelievable.” 

Harry collapses into him, hands all over his chest, his ass, his arms. “I’ve never actually done that before, so I’m, like, really, really glad to hear it,” he admits, breath hot and soft against Louis’s neck. 

Louis shudders, as if his body is processing what Harry is saying before his brain does. He’s still dazed, overwhelmed from coming, from having Harry and all his fire and brilliance so close, in his arms, around his neck, when what Harry has just said hits him. “Wait, _what_?” he asks, hooking his thumbs under Harry’s jaw to pry his face from the junction of his own neck and shoulder so he can _look_ at him, eyes wide with disbelief. “You’re joking, right?” 

Harry shakes his head slowly, eyes shot and dark and half-lidded with arousal, “No...is that bad?” 

“Fuck, of course not, it’s….,” _really hot_ , Louis thinks, stomach twisting over the realization that no one, no one but _him_ , has had Harry’s perfect, unreal mouth. It’s a heady thought, and he knows he doesn’t have the right to feel possessive, not when Harry isn’t his boyfriend or anything, but he still feels a surge of complacency. “It was fucking amazing…I’m honored to be the lucky recipient of your very first blowjob, Harry Styles,” he says, the end of Harry’s name turning into a messy slur as Harry dips down and kisses it off his lips, all tongue, wet and sloppy and bitter with Louis’s come. 

They kiss against the lockers, and Louis feels Harry with broad palms, fingers digging into the muscle framing his spine before he tangles them in his hair. Harry is so fucking heavy and thorough with his kisses, claiming Louis’s mouth over and over again, touching him like he’s never felt something so good in his life. It’s _a lot_ , and Louis tries not to let it go to his head, tries not to wonder if Harry is like this with everyone, or if he likes Louis as much as Louis likes him. After a few moments of fevered kissing, it occurs to him that maybe this is Harry’s first _everything_ , and that’s why he’s so hungry, so desperate, so unwilling to let Louis breathe. His heart clenches, and he pulls away to ask, “Wait, have you…at all, with a guy?”

Harry nips at the air, shifting his hips against Louis deliberately, the heat of his cock pressing into Louis’s belly, hard and insistent. “No, I’ve, like…hooked up with guys and jacked a few off, but, like…I don’t know. Never like this. I don’t know that many other gay guys where I’m from, and everything I've done was sort of drunken and experimental,” he explains, continuing to roll his hips against Louis, making everything feel filthy, loaded, even if it’s not. “This is my first time with someone who’s not just…trying it out. At least, I think you’re not,” he mumbles, the corner of his mouth twisting up into a half-smile that Louis has to bite. 

“Fuck, no,” Louis assures him, flicking his tongue out over the seam of Harry’s lips, which are so swollen, so fucked, so gorgeous he can hardly stand it. “I’m very gay, and I have been my entire life, believe it or not,” he jokes, palming down Harry’s sides, then up his shirt to feel skin, hot and smooth and sweat-damp. _God, you are so good, you’re unbelievable_ , he thinks, thumbing into the slats of Harry’s ribs, awed. 

“Does it…I don’t know, is my inexperience a turn off?” Harry asks then, voice suddenly higher, sharper than it has been since they started kissing and everything turned into low, sugar-sweet rumbles. Louis’s stomach drops; it seems unfathomable that Harry could ever think anything about him was a turn off, anything at all. Louis is so fucking turned on that he’s half-hard again, even after coming so intensely his knees are still shaky. 

“ _No,_ ” he says emphatically, squeezing Harry’s sides, heart in his throat. “Absolutely fucking not. I wasn’t lying when I said it was the best blowjob of my life. I love how you kiss, Harry, I love all of this,” he murmurs, stopping himself before he admits, _I love you, everything about you._

“Okay, good, I’m so glad,” Harry huffs out a sigh of relief, burying his face in Louis’s neck and trembling a little. “I was worried.” 

_God, you don’t have to be worried about anything at all,_ Louis wants to tell him, but instead he slides a hand down Harry’s abs, hooking his fingers into his waistband carefully and saying, “I wanna make you come,” the words thick and charged in his throat. 

Harry’s cock pulses; he can feel it against his body. “God, please,” Harry begs him, lips moving against Louis’s throat. “I’m gonna come so fast, though, I feel like I’ve been holding on forever.” 

Louis’s mouth fills up with saliva, throat aching around a sudden thickness as he pulls the waistband of Harry’s boxers out so he can look down at his cock, so big and swollen and red, nestled in his pubes, sticky and wet bubbling up from the slit. He knew Harry would have a sexy cock, and he knew it was big (thank you, Yellow Shorts), but his breath catches when he actually sees it, when he imagines how much it’s going to stretch his mouth, his ass. How it would feel hollowing him out. “Jesus,” he murmurs, “you’re perfect. I can’t believe you haven’t had a million boyfriends.” 

“No,” Harry sighs, hands stilling on Louis’s waist and flexing there as he peers down, gasping as Louis wraps a hand around him, thumbing through the obscene slick at the tip. “Oh, god, Louis,” he hisses, hips stuttering as he fucks up into the ring of Louis’s fist. 

Louis has never had anything so hot in his hand, so _good_. He swallows the spit in his mouth only to have it fill up again instantly, amazed at how thick Harry is, how unbelievable it feels to have his cock in his hand, to see it twitch and pulse precum as he touches it. His dick is so big, but it looks even bigger because Louis has small hands, and he can’t wait to choke on it, to tease Harry, work him over, make him cry. This can’t be the last time this happens because there’s _so much_ left, so many more things Louis needs to do to him. He trembles as he touches him, overwhelmed. 

They both watch in silent fascination as Louis jacks Harry off, certain and firm, sliding up the whole of his length before twisting at the tip, lubricated with sweat and the mess of precum. “God, you get so wet...I love it,” Louis praises, dabbing his finger against Harry’s slit and pulling it back, heart stopping at the shining filament keeping them connected. “Just dripping for me.” 

“Oh, god,” Harry chokes out, fucking up into Louis, clearly getting close. Louis picks up speed, but it isn’t until Harry shoves his hands down the back of Louis’s underwear and squeezes his ass in hungry, graceless fists that he loses it, hips locking up as he comes. 

It’s a lot, shooting up as high as Louis’s chest, getting all over his shirt. They both cry out, and Louis pumps him through the aftershocks and even well after them, just feeling Harry, savoring the shift of his foreskin over hardness, everything slick and hot and perfect as Harry winces and keens. 

“You’re a mess,” Louis tells him, smearing some of the slickness on his fingers down Harry’s thigh, marveling at the way it glistens. 

“So are you,” Harry grumbles, rubbing his face into Louis’s neck before kissing it, wet and open, tongue swirling over his pulse. “Can we…will you take a shower with me? Or is that weird?” 

“It’s way weirder to go teach riding lessons to children smelling like sex,” Louis offers, stomach clenching up reflexively at the idea of having Harry naked in the shower with him, his whole body wet and dripping and glorious. He swallows thickly, turning to press a single tender kiss to Harry’s temple, where he’s beaded in sweat. He licks the salt off his lips and adds, “Or art lessons...whatever it is that you do.” 

Harry giggles, squeezing Louis once before peeling off him, cringing as he pulls down his boxers and steps out of them. It looks so _easy_ , Harry just stripping down in front of him, his long, tan legs wobbling unsteadily. Louis never wants to look away, wants to live a life where he gets to watch Harry Styles stumble out of his clothes and stretch before he turns on the shower, where they get to wash each other’s hair and tell each other about their work days and joke and gently tease and share idle kisses under the warm spray. He wants to ask Harry to be his boyfriend. He wants to ask Harry to _marry_ him. He’s totally excessive and out of control. 

_You don’t even know what he wants out of this yet, everything is new still_ , he reminds himself, pulling his shirt over his head and stepping out of his shorts with shaking legs before following Harry into the shower. _Just enjoy what you have. He’s here now, don’t worry about if he’ll be there in the future._

Louis takes a deep breath, just as Harry shoots a look over his shoulder, smirking and dimpling. “S’warm, come on,” he beckons, taking Louis’s hand, pulling him close before kissing him again, dizzying and hot, so they both stumble. 

Louis gasps, pitching forward, losing himself to heat and slickness and the swirl of steam.


	8. Chapter 8

Louis is in a fantastic mood by the time he makes it down to the barn, hair freshly washed and instant coffee in hand. There might be a bounce in his step and everything, which would be embarrassing if he were embarrassed about this, but he feels _fully entitled_ to his newfound absence of anxiety, so he’s not embarrassed at all. He sidles into the breezeway and isn’t even annoyed to see Camilla, who immediately hands him a lead rope that happens to be connected to a horse. “Louis, you’ve got Blaze, Oliver, and Mickey this morning,” she says. “Zayn’s already by the cross ties.” 

“Great,” he tells her, and then, in an amazing demonstration of civility, “you’re looking cute this fine Monday morning.”

She’s suspicious, once-overing Louis and his shit-eating grin, but takes the compliment anyway. “I have, like, six giant mosquito bites on my arms? But, whatever, _thank you._ Not that your opinion counts much,” she sighs. 

“What does that mean?!” he gasps, and she laughs, and all is well in the world because, last night, Harry kissed _Louis_ , not Camilla, and Louis isn’t the type to gloat or anything, but he’s _totally_ feeling smug about this. He pats Blaze on the neck and walks him out to the cross ties, hitching him in the vacancy beside Zayn and Moxie. “So,” he says lightly, crossing his arms over Blaze’s back and peering at Zayn. “I think I owe you both an apology and endless gratitude.”

Zayn, who had been bending down to pick Moxie’s hoof, drops her foot and stands upright, brushing dust off his jeans and raising his eyebrows at Louis in an entirely unreadable woodland nymph-like way. “I hope this is the beginning of your explanation for why you and Harry were fucking _missing_ this morning. Niall was dead convinced you guys had a fight or something and had gone off to… _duel_ , was the word he kept using, and Liam and I had to be, like, ‘No, I don’t think it’s that, Niall.’ Anyway, I covered your ass, so I accept the gratitude and apology. Now,” he says, narrowing his eyes, “I’m gonna guess you weren’t _dueling_.” 

Louis sighs, spreading himself dramatically across Blaze’s back, not even caring how dirty he is. “No, we didn’t _duel_ , not exactly, but maybe some people call it that? I don’t know,” he manages to get out, chest too tight with exhilaration and relief and overwhelm that he can’t even really talk. He looks up at Zayn,, grinning, and Zayn’s eyes get big. 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he mumbles, smiling a little, all sly and reluctant. “So...how was it?” 

“Zayn,” he breathes, hiding his face in Blaze’s mane. “It was…I don’t even know. Indescribable. Like, I _knew_ it would be good, right, but I didn’t think…ugh,” Louis cuts himself off, opening a hand over the rapid-fire thud of this heart. “I can’t even talk, I’m still so, like, out of my mind over it,” he admits, gaze sweeping across the sky, wide and blue and clear, streaked in cotton-candy clouds. The sun feels like it’s just for him, like it _knows_ what happened, and he’s probably being weird and sappy, but it’s _true_. 

“Oh, my god,” Zayn grumbles, “well, at least start grooming. While you sit here mooning over Styles, I’m gonna go get our tack.” He rolls his eyes, nudging the plastic groom box under the bar dividing their stalls with the toe of his boot, offering it to Louis before heading back to the barn. Then he turns on his heel and adds, “Louis, don’t get me wrong… I’m really happy for you.” 

By the time he comes back, staggering under the weight of two horses’ worth of gear, Louis has gotten the majority of the crusted dirt and sweat off Blaze and picked all four of his hooves. He’s actually moving quite efficiently for someone so thoroughly elated that he’s distracted. 

“So,” Zayn sighs, hefting the saddles and pads onto the outer railing of the cross ties before handing Louis Blaze’s bridle, “I want a medium-intensity version of this story, where you actually tell me what went down but without any gross detail or anything. Like, hopefully more than fanboy shrieking, but I don’t want to know about, like, the mole on Harry’s ass or anything. No offense.” 

“None taken,” Louis says, flicking Blaze’s blanket over his back, followed by a fleecy saddle pad. “So, first off…you were right, I’m an idiot, and I’m sorry about not listening to you sooner. I feel like I was being so _needy_ and blind, and I’m just…I’m sorry,” he stutters, looking at Zayn through his lashes and pouting a little, even though that never works on Zayn. 

“Yeah, _that’s_ not news,” Zayn says, adjusting Moxie’s saddle pads as she pins her ears and bites at the air in a truly needlessly mare-like fashion. “Sorry, girl,” he tells her sympathetically, cringing as he follows her blankets with the kid-sized Western saddle. “What made you finally see the light?” 

Louis bites at the inside of his cheek as he cinches Blaze’s girth, wondering if Zayn really wants to know about The Crop Incident, or if he can summarize _without_ making him feel weird about items in the tack room he incidentally has to, like…touch every day. After some deliberation, he decides to just omit the whole thing all together; he’s going to have a hard enough time with that crop on his own. “Last night, he woke me up over something, and in my, like, half-asleep stupor, I accidentally licked his abs, and then he told me to kiss him, and then we made out in his bunk until we accidentally woke up _your_ boyfriend—”

“Not my boyfriend,” Zayn interrupts him, narrowing his eyes as he puts Moxie’s bridle over her head and bits her, dodging her spectacular attempts at killing him in the process. Moxie may prefer Zayn over all other humans, but she still hates getting tacked up more than she loves him. “And you _licked_ his abs??! Is that some figure of speech I don’t know about, or did you _literally_ lick him?” he hisses, keeping his voice low because Camilla is walking by, boots crunching in the dirt.

“It was a lot hotter than it sounds, I promise,” Louis whispers back, fastening Blaze’s throat lash before patting him on the cheek affectionately. “Anyway, Liam sort of woke up, so we snuck down to the showers, and well…I’m sure you can put the rest together,” he says smugly, waggling his eyebrows at Zayn and smirking. 

“Oh,” Zayn mutters quietly, pursing his lips and sounding mildly surprised, which is actually a lot of surprised for Zayn. “So you _did_ fuck.” 

“ _Yes_ , once up against the lockers, and once in the shower,” Louis whispers to Zayn as they unhook Blaze and Moxie and lead them to the area where they can be tied alongside the other tacked-up horses. “Just hands and mouths, though, I’m not going to take Harry’s anal virginity in a camp locker room...I’m saving that for a literal bed of roses or something,” he explains, only half-joking. 

“See, I could have lived not knowing all that? Like, now every time I shower, I’m gonna wonder, ‘Did Tommo get a blowie in here?’ and then I’m not gonna _really_ feel clean,” he grumbles. 

Louis shrugs, feeling internally self-congratulatory at his decision to keep The Crop Incident to himself. “It was my favorite shower stall, so you know which one you can avoid.” 

“Ugh, I’m picturing things I don’t want to picture, and now I know _exactly_ where to picture them,” Zayn gripes as they head back to the barn to get their next horses tacked up. 

“Well, now you _also_ know a fraction of what I felt walking in on you and _Liam_ dry humping, thank you very much,” Louis reminds him, jabbing Zayn in the side with his elbow. “Also, somewhat unrelated, but Harry told me I have a pretty cock. Isn’t that just the sweetest thing?” 

Zayn makes a face. “As someone who has seen your cock a million times, I can confirm it’s actually really average, and he’s probably just super attracted to you. But yeah, I guess that’s a nice compliment? Are you guys, like…boyfriends now?” Zayn asks, brows raised again. 

Choosing to ignore Zayn’s figurative jab at his anatomy, Louis’s heart contacts the smallest bit, stomach turning uneasily. “I don’t know,” he admits, voice suddenly low, quiet. “I obviously want to be, but we didn’t really talk about it. I didn’t…I don’t know, I don’t want to, like, push it. Or scare him away.” 

“Fair enough,” Zayn shrugs, grabbing Apple’s halter off her stall door before hefting it open as Louis does the same to Oliver’s adjacent stall. “Do you feel like he’d be into that? Or is this just a fun summer thing for him?” 

Louis tries on that idea, Harry simply using him for a fun summer thing. Finding him reasonably attractive and obviously willing, a temporary hookup to combat the monotony of camp, an opportunity to get some more experience under his belt before heading back home and applying what he’s learned to some boy he’s had his eye on or something. It all fits too well, seems too plausible, and Louis’s chest suddenly aches with the very real potential of it. _Stop,_ he scolds himself. _If that’s what he wants, that’s fair. He doesn’t owe you anything, and you’ve been lucky to kiss him at all._ “Um,” he says, rubbing his hand over his solar plexus, trying to stave off the new ache. “I don’t know yet. I’m trying not to expect anything or get too excited, you know? He’s really young, and we obviously live in different halves of California, and I just want…whatever I can get, I guess. God, does that sound pathetic?” he asks, wincing as he says it because he _knows_ it does, knows Zayn is gonna call him on it. 

“I mean…a little? But it also sounds realistic, which is good, I think, for you. To keep your expectations and relationship ideals in check,” Zayn explains as they walk the horses down the breezeway side by side. “Have fun, you know, but also be careful.” 

“The wise parables of Zayn Malik,” Louis sighs, taking a deep, aching breath. There’s a heaviness to his chest now, but it’s not enough to keep his heart from leaping in excitement every time he remembers this morning, burning fragments coming at him in a jumble: Harry’s head thrown back and gasping as he made him come a second time in the shower, Harry’s blood welling up under his tongue as he sucked at the wound on his stomach, Harry’s plush mouth stretched to a perfect pink O as he sucked Louis off, eyes trembling beneath the lids in tempered bliss. Harry is _into_ him, at least that’s indisputable,, and that’s worlds more than he could have hoped for even 24 hours ago, so he’ll take it. “Thanks for everything, Zayn, for listening to me while I whined on about this for a week and a half. I know it sucked.” 

Zayn waves a hand through the air idly. “Yeah, but at least it paid off. You’re hooking up with Harry now, right? That was endgame, and we got there.” 

_Was that endgame?_ Louis wonders, squinting in the sun. There’s so much more he wants from Harry, so many insane, massive things, and furthermore, this has never been a _game_ to him. He started the summer wanting to get _over_ Harry Styles, and he ended up _here_. It feels so much bigger than some game, summer hookups or pulling boys at parties. “I dunno,” he murmurs, hooking up Oliver to the cross ties. “I’m, like…fuck. I’m in love with him, Zayn. I know you think that’s crazy or you don’t believe me or whatever, but it’s true. I want to manage my expectations and shit, but I also, like…want to ask him out? Is that the stupidest thing I could do at this point?” 

“ _Yes_ ,” Zayn hisses at him through his teeth. “I _get_ that you’re in love with him, and I totally believe it because you’ve been absolutely insufferable about it, and only love makes people that annoying. But _Louis_. He’s fresh out of high school, you only see each other two months out of the year, and as of now, you’ve hooked up exactly once.” 

“But…it was once outside the shower and once inside. And then back in the cabin,” Louis whines, even though he knows he’s splitting hairs at this point. 

“I’m counting it all as one, no buts,” Zayn snaps. “ _My point_ is that it’s too soon. Tommo…I love you, you know I do, but you _freak guys out_ because you’re really intense, and you hate the dating game, but that’s how people our age _are_ , okay? Even if you’re in love with him, please just give it a little time. Let him hook up with other people if he wants to, you know?” 

Louis doesn’t know. The mere thought makes him want to die, and he tells Zayn as much. “I might _actually_ perish if that happens. I’m jealous and possessive and _old-fashioned._ I just don’t think I’m emotionally capable of whatever zen, casual, no-strings-attached thing you and Liam are doing. I am, for all intents and purposes, an old lady from the 1950s or something,” he explains in a hush. He’s not exactly sure what dating habits and preferences he shares with an old lady from the 1950s. He knows very little about that era save for what he learned watching _White Christmas_ excessively as a kid, but he’s sure he has more in common with them on this particular subject than he does with Zayn. 

“You’re gonna end up an old maid, then,” Zayn says, shrugging. “Sorry, Tommo.” 

Louis sticks his tongue out, which is very childish, but whatever. He’s not going to let Zayn and Zayn’s realism concerning current relationship culture ruin his fabulous morning. He turns back to grooming Oliver, choosing to think of other things instead. The way the green in Harry’s eyes looks flecked in gold up close, for example, or the way Harry held his hand or wore his mended shirt: sure, certain, proud. 

He feels like these things have to count for something. 

\---

After their last lesson, Zayn and Louis head to the mess hall for lunch, and Louis is nothing but butterflies on his way over, stomach twisted and acidic and hungry and anxious all at once. He wants to see Harry _so badly_ , but he’s still traumatized from being ignored last night, so returning to the mess hall feels like entering a fucking war zone or a crime scene. He’s as guarded as he is excited, which is making him feel vaguely sick, and that’s unfortunate because this is the second time he’s been in the mess hall over the course of the last two days and too nauseated to eat, and he, like, _really_ needs to eat. It’s hot outside, and he feels weak; instant coffee, lukewarm water, and a single baby carrot from the horses’ stash isn’t a substantial enough breakfast for a job as labor-intensive as Louis’s is. 

He hooks his arm through Zayn’s, clinging to him so he’ll have someone’s arms to swoon into in the event that being reunited with Harry is too intense, and he faints upon seeing him. 

“Tommo, Zayn!” someone shouts, and even though that someone is definitely Niall, Louis still digs his nails into Zayn’s arm, eyes scanning the tables frantically, trying to pick Harry out of the crowd or maybe hear his distinct, honking goose laugh over the din of screaming children. Instead, Louis spots Niall, his shock of bleach-blond hair very nearly white with all the sun exposure it’s been getting. He’s waving a burnt, pink arm over his head, and Liam is next to him, looking sullen because Liam sort of has a perpetual resting bitch face. Harry is nowhere to be found. “We saved you a spot!” Niall crows, patting the space beside him as Zayn slides in. Louis sits opposite the three of them because he needs space to, like…breathe. 

Monday lunch happens to be dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets and a thawed peas-and-carrots mix, which isn’t ideal, but at least it isn’t sloppy joes. Louis gets a tray of food and proceeds to push his veggies (if you can call them that) around his plate, listening to Liam and Niall animatedly tell some story about how they saw a coyote this morning and had the kids follow it from a safe distance, like a whole mile down the trail. 

“See,” Liam starts, beaming, “our code phrase for peeing on the trail is ‘chase a coyote.’ So, like, for example, if Louis here needed to take a leak in the middle of a hike, he would be, like, ‘Payno, m’gonna go chase a coyote!’ and all the kids would crack up, right?” 

Louis rolls his eyes, smirking and managing to take a bite of a chicken nugget without combusting. “I wouldn’t tell _you_ if I was taking a leak or not. Is that something you guys do to get freaky in the survival unit? Announce your bathroom breaks?” 

Liam ignores Louis, turning back to Zayn and explaining, “So since we were _actually, literally_ chasing a coyote, the kids thought it was absolutely hilarious. I couldn’t believe it, like, how entertained they were by it. The other group from the morning was so jealous that _they_ didn’t get to chase a coyote as a group.” 

Louis is busy wondering how on earth someone like Liam managed to seduce a woodland nymph like Zayn (he suspects it was something more than telling him innocuous coyote-chasing stories, but Zayn is also unexpected in his preferences a lot of the time, so who knows) when his skin prickles up. He knows Harry is behind him before he turns to look; it’s sort of a weird sixth sense he’s developed since falling in love with Harry, where his body _knows_ if he’s in a ten-foot radius. 

“Hey, guys,” Harry pants, coming up beside Louis all breathless and heated like he's been running, sweat glistening on his throat as Louis cuts his gaze over to him, heart clenching at how badly he just…wants him back in his arms, that sweat under his tongue. He knows it’s only been a few hours, but he _missed_ him. “Sorry m’late, I had to go to the cabin for something,” he mumbles as he collapses next to Louis, shooting him a shy, fleeting look and blushing. “Oh, dino nuggets!? What a good day!” 

Zayn is staring at his plate to keep from staring at Harry and Louis, which is a very kind thing of him to do because Louis is already feeling painfully obvious even without the scrutiny, like all of his feelings and desires are written out on his skin, like he’s turned into a neon sign that flashes _I sucked Harry’ s dick in the shower only six hours ago!_

He can feel the heat of Harry’s body beside him, can smell Elmer’s glue and pine and sweat and spice wafting up from his hair as he pulls his headscarf off and shakes it out. “What did I miss?” 

“Well, Liam and Niall and their whole second group of kids chased a coyote _together_ this morning,” Louis explains, and Harry grins at him, dimple popping. 

“I actually heard about that from Brandon! The kid with the glasses? He thought the whole thing was comedic genius, and he could hardly deliver the punchline without busting up,” Harry says, just as he carefully, subtly presses his thigh against Louis’s under the table, gently but deliberately. Louis heart slams against the inside of his chest in sudden overwhelm, sweat springing to his palms as he wipes them nervously on his breeches. He feels himself blush as he shoots a small, private smile to Harry, who returns it, perhaps in a less small and less private way. _God_. It’s just…Louis loves him _so_ much. There isn’t room for it in his body, and he can’t possibly love Harry and also pay attention to Liam’s stories and also eat chicken nuggets shaped like dinosaurs. He can’t do anything substantial at the _same time_ as he’s so actively, massively, _terrifyingly_ consumed by _this_. He inhales raggedly, and then he stops breathing altogether when Harry’s hand creeps up onto his thigh and squeezes gently. 

And there they sit, the heat of Harry’s palm bleeding through Louis’s breeches and burning his skin in the most lovely way as Niall’s gaze volleys between the two of them curiously. “So looks like you guys made up,” he says cheerfully, taking a generous bite of chicken nugget, so generous in fact that nothing remains of its stegosaurus shape save for the tip of its tail. “That’s cool. We were sort of worried when we woke up and you were just _gone_...thought maybe you’d left to fight on the capture-the-flag green or something. Have a rumble.” 

“Ah, _rumble_ , yes, that was the word. Not duel. Sorry, Louis,” Zayn says, shooting a grin across the table, loaded and suggestive, and Louis would _scold_ him if it wouldn’t give him and Harry away. 

“Not a rumble, just a shower,” Harry says lightly, tracing up the outside seam of Louis’s breeches with his thumb, and Louis has gotten hard from less, but not since he was, like…fourteen. Or before this whole Harry Styles business. Harry makes him into a fucking idiot. “M’gonna get food...you want anything, guys?” 

Amid the chorus of half-hearted , _no thanks_ , Louis murmurs, “M’gonna go to the bathroom,” eyes skating over to Harry hopefully in a _maybe you want to come with but, like, no pressure_ way. Luckily, Harry looks delighted, eyes twinkling as he gives Louis’s thigh a final squeeze before standing up, bending his head, and moving down the aisle toward the bathrooms in the back. _Yes!_ Louis cheers internally, and Zayn gives him a fucking _thumbs up_ as he sidles out after Harry. _Fuck you_ , he mouths, even though he’s so happy he could fucking burst. 

He follows Harry, eyes flicking up to the broad stretch of his back in his clingy cotton shirt every few seconds, mouth flooded with saliva by the time they make it into the bathroom. It’s a single stall with a toilet and a urinal, and it doesn’t smell great, but Louis has kissed boys in more unsavory locations, and none of those boys were half as beautiful as Harry, so he’s pretty sure he can set aside the burn of ammonia and focus on more important things. 

They push inside, and Harry turns to lock the door with fumbling hands, cursing a little, spots of color on his cheeks as Louis stares and stares, wondering how on earth this amazing thing could have happened to him. Harry gets the lock after the second try and murmurs, “God, you make my hands shake so badly,” before turning to Louis, eyes wide and dark, like deep water, like something Louis could fall into. Louis’s breath catches in his throat, and he takes Harry’s face in his palms, drawing him in to crush their mouths together because he can’t _wait_ anymore. 

Kissing Harry is like a flood that washes over Louis suddenly, everything wet and powerful, and he groans helplessly as he backs Harry up into the wall beside the sink, hands in his hair, around his throat. Everything burns, Harry’s stubble and his teeth where they’re buried in Louis’s lower lip, and they kiss and kiss and kiss until Louis’s vision clouds over with stars, until he’s dizzy, lightheaded. 

“Couldn’t stop thinking about you all day, couldn’t stop replaying things and making myself crazy,” Louis tells him between kisses, even though it’s too real and raw, and he shouldn’t be letting himself wade into vulnerability like this. Zayn would be telling him to slow down, to pump the brakes, but he can’t help it, not with Harry holding him so closely and so solidly, tongue hot and molten as he swirls it against Louis’s messily. He can’t help it because Harry is _letting_ him, clutching for him, pulling him in and keeping him close, like he’s been wanting this as much as Louis has, like he’s desperate for it. 

They pull away with a wet sound to breathe, Harry whispering, “Me, too, me, too...I was so distracted...it was terrible...just wanted to be back here,” as he palms down Louis’s back and rucks up his T-shirt, so that he can spread palms over skin. The feeling is so electric that it _stings_ , too much and not enough, and Louis can’t stop himself from rolling his hips hard, grinding into Harry’s cock deliberately, so that Harry cries out, claws up his spine.

They kiss heatedly against the wall for as long as they can get away with it, hands all over each other’s bodies, Harry’s mouth flushed and obscene and broken open under Louis’s teeth because he can’t stop _biting_ him, can’t stop staring at the dizzying raspberry shade of his swollen lips without dipping back down to make them even redder. Louis thinks that this might be what heaven feels like, that he fucking died somewhere along the line and didn’t even notice, until he hears the firm rapping of knuckles against the door, followed by a disgruntled kid’s voice shouting, “You’re taking forever, and I really have to go!” 

Even _that’s_ not enough to scare them completely apart. Louis pulls back enough to look at Harry with wide, guilty eyes, but he’s still pressed flush against him, still wrist deep in the tangled wreck of his curls, still humping his leg like a fucking _animal_ because apparently he’s turned into the sort of boy who can come in his pants in disgusting camp bathrooms if the circumstances are right. “Later?” he whispers, thumbing over Harry’s slick lips, stomach plummeting when Harry opens his mouth to suck on the pad of his finger, eyes fluttering closed. 

“Okay,” he murmurs, looking up at Louis through his lashes, so fucking _beautiful_ , so heated. _I love you_ , Louis thinks, with fierceness and urgency so strong he has to bite it back to keep it from spilling out prematurely and ruining everything. “Later,” Harry echoes, before pressing a single soft kiss to the corner of Louis’s mouth. 

_Later_ , Louis thinks, and they stagger apart. 

—-

During their structured free time after lunch, Louis sits in the shade with Zayn and Liam, acting as ref for a volleyball game that Harry and Niall are facilitating with some nine-year-olds who have no idea how to play volleyball at all, which combined with their complete and utter lack of hand-eye coordination makes reffing sort of impossible, but Louis doesn’t care as long as he gets to call “Foul!” every time Harry does anything. It’s a fair punishment, he thinks, for Harry changing into the _Yellow Shorts_ for this occasion. 

Harry bumps the ball out of the court? Foul. Harry serves the ball into the net? Foul. Harry shakes his hair out of his eyes and ties it back up into his headscarf? Foul. Niall and the kids are in absolute stitches over it, and Harry’s laughing, but mostly he’s the prettiest shade of pink, shooting twinkly-eyed look after twinkly-eyed look in Louis’s direction, all dimples and chewed lips and heat and suggestion. He’s turned into a tangible combination of embarrassment and delight, and Louis is so fucking in love with him, in love with how easy he is to tease, how bright his cheeks get when he’s embarrassed, every single little thing about Harry Styles. 

He’s preparing to serve now, but every time he cranks his arm back, Louis shouts “Foul!” before he gets a chance to hit the ball. After his fourth failed attempt, Niall crumples to the ground, bowled over by laughter, and Harry gives up, slamming the volleyball into the court so it bounces and rolls away before he pretends to storm off, arms in the air. He’s grinning enormously, though, all teeth and dimples and giddiness as he comes over to Louis’s side of the court, so bright and red and smiley it’s almost as if he’s glittering, like some fucking magical creature, like a storm. Louis _loves_ him. 

“Rumble! Rumble! Rumble!” Niall crows, rolling around on the pavement and pumping his fist in the air. 

“Duel! Duel! Duel!” Zayn chimes in, waggling his eyebrows at Louis as Harry barrels over in a way that a ballerina might barrel if ballerinas threw around that type of weight. 

Louis has three seconds to half-assedly shield himself before Harry is plowing into him, straddling him, crowding into his space, pushing him onto his back under the guise of….dueling. Rumbling. Louis doesn’t know, he’s breathless and sort of hard and giggling, and Harry is surprisingly _strong_ as he pins Louis down, pushing his arms up over his head easily, even as he’s shaking with laughter. “You’re the absolute _worst_ ref,” he wheezes, digging his thumbs into Louis’s pulse, between the tendons of his wrist. 

It feels insanely hot and intimate, and Louis squirms, smirking up at him. “Well, you, Harold, are the absolute worst volleyball player,” he responds, and Harry makes an outraged squawking sound as Louis flips him, eas, as Louis is not the sort of person who lets himself get held down for very long. 

They roll around for a few minutes on the pavement, scraping elbows as they laugh and grapple, and at some point, Liam clears his throat in discomfort because he can, like, _probably tell_ that this is more than a rumble. Louis doesn’t care; this is what Liam deserves after subjecting him to the horror of his _love affair with Zayn._

The wrestling dissolves into them just lying on top of each other and cracking up, the kids having lost interest in a real game and sort of passing the ball around and teasing Niall for being on the ground. They’re getting away with a lot, _too_ much, perhaps, seeing as Harry has managed to get his mouth on Louis’s neck long enough to suck a mark into his skin, quick and sharp and searing before canting away, hiccuping in laughter. Louis’s heart is thudding like crazy all over the inside of his chest as he slaps at his neck, feeling Harry’s spit under his palm as they roll apart, like they mutually realized they’re taking it too far for the fucking volleyball court at camp. 

“You’re all dirty,” Louis observes, trying to speak evenly in spite of his frantic panting. His cheeks color because Harry’s looking at him with the softest, sweetest heat, a smile spreading like caramel as he wipes the shine of saliva off his mouth coyly. Louis rubs under Harry’s sleeve, where he’s streaked in black from the pavement, thumbing into the indent between his biceps. “Totally filthy.” 

Harry blushes a deep red, chewing his lip as he replies, “ _You_ are...it’s on your _face_ , you look like a football player. Very manly.” 

“You should see me in shoulder pads,” Louis jokes, rolling off Harry to diminish the near-debilitating urge to kiss him, to touch him. He lies on his side on the pavement, watching Harry’s chest rise and fall rapidly in time with his labored breath. 

“ _Ahem_ , you guys need to cool off,” Liam coughs, and Louis starts because he sort of forgot Liam was there. “Like…go wash off in the lake or something. Before you do something that might get you fired.” 

Whether or not Liam’s being serious, Harry and Louis end up in the water anyway, wading in along the shore, scolding some girls who are having a violent splash fight in the shallows, and teasing each other gently. “Those shorts,” Louis starts, raising an eyebrow. “Just so you know, they very nearly killed me,” he admits, dropping his voice so none of the kids hear. 

Harry grins at him, about thigh deep in the lake, goosebumps prickling up on his arms as a breeze whistles by them. “Really?” he asks, wrinkling his nose like he’s truly surprised. “You made fun of me,” he remembers, wincing, putting his arms up as he wades deeper, the water rising over his hips, and Louis drinks him in, his summer tan, the easy cut of muscle. It’s so nice to _look_ , and know it’s okay if he does. “I really just thought you saw me as a kid, or something, the same sixteen-year-old from two summers ago, you know? Same stupid shorts. Plus, yellow isn’t a flattering color or anything,” Harry explains, and Louis is so surprised he doesn’t even know what to _say_. He doesn’t tell Harry that he had a crush on that very same sixteen-year-old from two summers ago, or that he looks amazing in yellow, in every color. He just shrugs before wading further, sneaking up behind Harry and putting his hands on his shoulders before pushing him down, dunking him so he shrieks before collapsing under the water, flailing. 

He surfaces a sputtering mess, hair melted into a black slick all over his face, dorky and fucking adorable. “Good look,” Louis murmurs before slipping under himself, the water cold enough that it’s refreshing without being biting, which is a decent temperature for combatting inappropriately timed boners. He swims a few strokes under the surface before coming up for air, only to find Harry inches away from him, treading water. They’re between the dock and the shallows, isolated from the kids practicing diving into the deeper water, and the younger ones messing around on the lake shore. Isolated enough that Louis feels like he can get close to Harry, their legs kicking under the water in a slick, intimate tangle. “You didn’t know I was looking at you? In your shorts?” he asks in a hush, brows raised into arches because he’s, like…genuinely curious, really, if Harry _noticed_. He feels like he was so obvious, so out of control, Harry _had_ to have seen it. 

“No, not really,” Harry answers, dog-paddling chaotically before planting his feet on Louis’s thighs for a second to push off his body into a clumsy backstroke. It’s weird, and it sends Louis off balance enough that he very nearly inhales a mouthful of lake water, but he doesn’t care. It still makes his stomach flutter; Harry is so _cute_ and klutzy-graceful all at once, some weird deer-seahorse hybrid, and Louis loves him, loves him, loves him. “I hoped you were, obviously,” Harry mumbles then, shaking his hair out of his eyes as Louis swims up to him, ever needing to be closer. “But I was also, like…too busy looking at you to notice if you were looking at me.” 

He gets so red as he says it, and Louis’s stomach plummets, brows flying up to his hairline again. “At me? But my shorts are normal sized and not yellow,” he reminds Harry, smirking even though his insides are a ruin, gut knotting spectacularly at the idea of Harry checking him out at all, in any universe, which is somehow a thought he hasn’t entertained much. “Surely you had to _work hard_ to see anything at all.’ 

Harry’s eyes get big, lovely mouth parting around something unsaid before he recovers his voice and says, “Louis…do you _know_ how good your ass looks in, like, every single thing? In your _riding_ pants?” 

He doesn’t say it very loud, but kids have a fine-tuned sense of hearing for every curse word ever, so the chatter of the group of girls sitting on the dock braiding their wet hair is suddenly silent, and several pairs of eyes stare at Harry intently, making Louis realize with a surge of anxiety that they _probably_ should not be having this conversation while on the clock. They clear their throats and break into nervous giggles for a moment, Harry’s cheeks such a violent red that he almost looks sunburned. “As much as I want to continue this chat and hear all of your opinions about that particular facet of my anatomy,” Louis whispers, treading water close to Harry, their knees brushing together in the cold deep of it, “we should probably save this for a later date.” 

“Um, speaking of dates,” Harry starts, averting his gaze and flushing even _deeper_ , which Louis didn’t think was possible, but Harry defies nature simply by existing, so whatever. “I left you something in your bed. You can, like…answer the question on it and put it back in mine before we go to bed. I figured it would be more discreet than talking about your ass in a lake,” he explains, and Louis has no fucking idea what he’s talking about, but he doesn’t care; he loves Harry’s inconvenient vagueness, the strange, indirect way he speaks. His heart is racing, mouth dry, and Harry is right in _front of him_ , telling him he left something in his bed. The whole world feels magical. 

“Okay, I can’t wait to see what it is,” he says gently, reaching out and grabbing Harry’s wrists in the water between them. “Let’s go under on three, and then we can, like, do our actual jobs?” he asks, and Harry beams back at him, nodding. 

They count together, grip hands, and plunge beneath the surface, and Louis _hates_ opening his eyes under water, but he forces himself to do it in this moment, so that he can land a single kiss on Harry’s pretty lips without missing, the water licking around them, cold and green.


	9. Chapter 9

That night, Louis rushes back from campfire, desperate to get into 14C before the other boys do so that he can see whatever it is that Harry has left him privately. He slams through the door and locks it behind him to buy time, vaulting up into his bunk like a kid, heart in his throat as it has been for the last few hours, the reality of Harry’s gift or message or whatever it is drawing ever closer. 

Harry has arranged Louis’s sleeping bag neatly in his bunk and zipped it up completely to hide whatever he slipped in, and as Louis unzips it with shaking fingers, he reveals a piece of cotton-candy-pink construction paper covered in dolphin stickers and Harry’s square, neat handwriting. There’s glitter in his sleeping bag, too, which presumably came off the glitter-glue squiggles Harry put on the back of the card, and Louis’s pretty sure he’s never, ever gonna recover from this. 

The card reads, _Will you accompany me on a secret little rendezvous after our cabin mates fall asleep?_ This is followed by three empty boxes marked _yes_ , _no_ , and _maybe_. Then, lastly, in a more cramped script, like Harry tacked it on after the fact and didn’t leave himself enough room, _p.s. sorry if this is too much, it’s mostly a joke. no pressure either! i don’t want you to feel obligated to break the rules to hang out with me. whatever you’re comfortable with - Harry :)_

And Louis is twenty years old, sure, but he brings that card and all its dolphin stickers and glitter glue up to his lips and presses a fucking kiss to it before fishing a Sharpie out of his duffle bag and checking off the _yes_ box, scrawling _of course!!!_ after it. Then he tucks it into Harry’s sleeping bag beneath him, just as he hears a lock scraping in the door. 

The other boys barrel in, Niall singing a song about spaghetti that’s somehow _not_ the timeless camp classic “On Top of Spaghetti” at the top of his lungs. Zayn looks exasperated, Liam looks exhausted, and Harry looks anxious, eyes falling immediately on Louis’s, wide and expectant before he silently stumbles over to his bunk and sneaks a look at the card. 

“Where did _you_ go?” Zayn asks Louis, clapping him on the back on the way to his bunk, eyes narrowed. “You booked it so fast out of campfire, I lost you.” 

“Bathroom,” Louis answers lightly, without looking at Zayn, gaze trained intently on Harry as he reads Louis’s response, dimple popping out, dark curls tumbling around his bent head and only half-concealing a soft, relieved smile. Louis wants to kiss it, wants to pull Harry into his arms and bury his face in his neck and tell him, _can’t you tell that nothing you do will ever be too much? I’m so fucking gone for you, I’ll meet you anywhere, follow you into any dark room, break any rule if it means I get to touch you, fuck,_ Harry. _I love you_. He swallows, trying to force down the deluge of feeling that’s rising in his throat as Harry looks up at him fleetingly, hopefully, and they share a private smile. 

Everyone mills about and winds down from the day, preparing to retire for the evening. Louis climbs into bed after washing his face and brushing his teeth, pretending he’s also going to bed soon, even though he knows full well he’s about to embark on a _secret little rendezvous_ with Harry, whatever that entails. He’s ready for anything, though. Like, as much as he wants to get every inch of Harry’s skin under his mouth, as much as he wants to spread him out and just _feel him_ , suck his nipples and watch his cock get hard and open him up with his fingers, feel inside his perfect fucking body, he also just wants to _be with_ him. Smell his hair and talk and laugh with him, hold his hand, nuzzle into his pulse and rest his head over his heartbeat to see if he can feel it pick up when he tells him how much he loves him. And…he really should hold off on that, the whole love confession thing. He thinks of Zayn. Zayn, who has lots of experience with casual relationships, with “friends with benefits,” with hookups. Zayn, who really _does_ have his best interests in mind, who doesn’t want him to get hurt. He inhales raggedly, rubbing his palms over this face to hide his smile as he hears Harry climb into the bunk underneath him, the mattress creaking under his weight. He wants _so much_ from Harry, but he needs to start slowly, reasonably. Chill. He needs to hold off long enough to get a read on what Harry wants, first. 

Niall hits the light, calls out, “Good night, SpaghettiOs!” into the new darkness (because Niall is weird), and hops up into his own bunk. Louis lies tense and still as he waits for the other boys to nod off, listening hard for the sound of tired breath becoming sleep breath. It seems like an eternity, and he keeps thinking everyone’s out and getting anxious with anticipation--until Zayn rolls over or Liam sighs irritatedly or Niall smacks his lips. They’re all still stirring, but Liam starts to snore eventually, which makes it hard to hear everyone else, to pick out nuance. Louis is sort of going crazy. 

His breath catches as he hears the tell-tale shift of nylon sleeping bag over rubber mattress as Harry starts to move, of Harry’s bunk whining as he shifts his weight, crawling out of it clumsily, standing on his tiptoes so his head is level with Louis’s. He’s just a hazy shape in the dark, but he’s still so lovely as Louis squints at him, lips in his teeth, heart in his throat. “Are you ready?” Harry asks quietly, voice nothing but warm, minty breath. Louis’s stomach seizes up, tightening even more as Harry adds, “I can’t wait anymore.” 

“Let’s go,” Louis breathes, sitting up and slipping out of his bunk as quietly as possible, toeing on his Vans and grabbing his key from the window sill where he left it in preparation. They pad quietly to the door, and Harry is so _close_ , the heat of his body hovering right behind Louis, almost like a touch until it _is_ a touch, and he alights his hands tentatively on Louis’s hips as they slip out the door and onto the cement landing outside. Louis’s heart stops at the sudden contact, and he flinches enough that Harry tries to pull back, but Louis’s quick, and he doesn't want _that_ , so he reaches behind his back and presses his hands down over Harry’s to keep him still. “S’okay,” he murmurs, turning to lock the door, and Harry lets out a sigh of relief and presses himself fully to Louis’s back, solid and heavy and so warm, lips in the overgrown bits of Louis’s hair that curl around his neck, and _fuck_ , this is how boyfriends stand, right? This is more than just casual camp-hookup behavior? Louis shudders under the weight of Harry’s body, fumbling with the lock because it’s actually really, really hard to do normal stuff when Harry’s touching him, solid and heavy and so warm. 

“Okay, finally, let’s go,” he whispers once the lock clicks into place and he pockets the key, trying hard not to just fall over under the brush of Harry’s nose on his neck as he ducks closer, magnetized. “You feel really good, by the way,” he adds, because Harry _does_ , and he wants him to know he _likes_ this stuff, likes kissing and cuddling and being close, that he wants this with him as much as he wants to fuck him. “So, what are we doing?” he asks in a shaky voice, reaching up with trembling hands and sneaking one up into Harry’s hair. 

“To be honest, I didn’t plan much further than this,” Harry admits sheepishly, pressing a single lingering kiss to the hinge of Louis’s jaw before letting him go. Louis shudders, overwhelmed and suddenly kind of chilly without Harry all over him. He inhales, the air crisp with the smell of fog and pine, cold on the inside of his throat and nose, dizzyingly clean. Without thinking much of it, he takes Harry’s hand because he _needs_ to touch him somehow as they walk down the path in no real direction. “I figured it depends on what you want,” Harry adds, squeezing Louis reassuringly as he further tangles their fingers together. “Like, we could go back to the showers if you wanted, um, …, _that,_ ” he mumbles before coughing, “ _or_ , it could be, like, a sort of real date, I don’t know. Well. I can’t take you to dinner and a movie, but we could do something lame. Like stargaze. I don’t know, it’s the woods,” he trails off, clearly embarrassed, and Louis is so fucking _endeared_ , even as his stomach is twisted up in longing, even as his mouth is dry from hearing Harry say _that_ and mean _sex_. It’s a lot, all this possibility, and Louis is dizzy, 

“Wow, you ask boys out and then make them decide where to go? Will I have to pay, too?” he jokes, hip-checking Harry so that they both stumble. 

“M’sorry,” Harry whispers, and he’s smiling, but Louis can tell by the sweat on his palm, by the way he’s chewing on the index finger of his free hand like he does when he’s around horses that he’s _nervous_ , somehow. “I just wanted to get you alone, but I’ll do whatever you want, I just…I don’t know.” 

He shrugs, and Louis thumbs over his knuckles gently, so fucking in love that he feels like he doesn’t have words beyond _I love you, Harry, I would sit and stare at you and count your moles for hours and be perfectly satisfied. Just fyi._ He doesn’t say that, though, opting instead for, “Well, as much as I’d _love_ to go back to the locker room, I bet people are still using it. Anyway, you promised me you’d tell me all your opinions about my ass, remember? Also, I love stargazing, so there’s that.” The last bit is sort of a lie; Louis has never been stargazing in his entire life, but he’s certain he’ll love literally anything he does with Harry, so. 

“Okay,” Harry replies, his smile melting into something more open, more wide. Louis’s chest somehow tightens and expands at the same time because the laws of physics don’t apply to Harry Styles, maybe, and he feels limitless. They walk hand in hand silently, Harry gently directing them toward the lake, which glitters in the dark like a mirror spread out before them, serene and reflective. “Out on the dock? Will it be too cold?” he adds. 

“Nah,” Louis murmurs. “Just, like…cuddle me for warmth or something.” 

“Cuddle you and compliment your ass? I see what kind of date you are,” Harry chuckles as they start down the dock, stepping gingerly. It creaks under their shoes, eerie and strange by night, like the sunlight is the only thing that keeps this particular sound from being spooky. Louis has walked the dock thousands of times, but here, now, with Harry’s hand in his own and the moon reflecting watery and metallic on the lake’s glassy surface, it feels like the first time. Like everything has changed. 

“Oh? And what kind of date is that, Harold?” he asks lightly as they make it to the end of the dock, using each other to steady themselves as they sit down, the structure bobbing gently in the water, unstable but rhythmic. 

“The princess kind,” Harry answers matter of factly, kicking off his sandals and scooting to the edge of the dock to dip his feet in the water. “Oh! S’cold,” he says, disentangling his fingers from Louis’s to trail them in the lake alongside his ankles. Louis follows suit, wincing at the sudden chilling cold. Harry is gazing down into the lake, but Louis is looking at Harry lit up in moonlight, the tumble of his hair framing his face, his eyes dark and kind and glistening from the shadow beneath his brows. 

“Are you calling me _spoiled_?” he asks, pretending to be affronted, spreading his hand over his chest in mock offense. 

Harry’s eyes sparkle. “No! There’s nothing wrong with being a princess. I like it. I’ll write you one hundred sonnets about your ass if you want, your highness,” he says, and Louis snorts, hopelessly endeared. 

“I don’t need _poetry_ ,” he says, kicking in the water to generate heat because it’s fucking _biting_ , and he’s shivering already. “Just to not freeze. So the cuddles, they would be appreciated, or you could, like, kiss me,” Louis suggests, his insides seizing up in a hot grip of nerves as he says it, at the mere _idea_ of Harry’s lips on his. 

Harry sighs, hot and shaky, “Yeah?” he murmurs, hooking his ankle around Louis’s in the water, skin slick and warm, a stark contrast to the cold water. “I’ve been wanting to...been thinking about it all day. It’s hard to look at you without wanting to kiss you, really," he finishes, eyes downcast to his lap. 

Louis’s heart leaps, picking up pace and fluttering against the inside of his ribcage. “Then do it,” he murmurs back, shifting close to Harry on the dock, pressing the outsides of their thighs flush together, hot and solid. “C’mere.” 

Harry makes a soft, cut-off gasping sound before reaching out with a trembling hand and making a fist in the front of Louis’s shirt. Louis lets himself be pulled in, lets Harry huff breath nervous and wanting and hungry over his mouth before their lips brush together, a single, fleeting second of chaste softness before he smooths his tongue over Harry’s lower lip and gets it between his teeth, makes Harry’s gasp sharpen into a muted yelp. They lose their balance, falling back onto the dock, legs kicking messily out of the water and splashing. Louis is above water, but with Harry’s mouth wet and open and hungry under his, he feels like he’s drowning. 

He rolls Harry out on his back, brackets his hips with his knees, and bears down over him, kissing along his neck, mouth open over his pulse and loving how frantic it is. “Are you warm now?” Harry asks, voice rumbling under Louis’s lips. 

“Yeah,” Louis answers breathily, nipping at the ripple of Harry’s throat as he swallows thickly. “But we aren’t stargazing,” he offers, even though he _is_ seeing stars, so dizzy with overwhelm that his vision keeps whiting out, giving way to a gaze of static because Harry feels so _good_ under him, supple and willing and warm and _real_. He pulls back to look at him for a second, his hair spread out on the dock, his neck shining with Louis’s spit. Then he can’t look anymore, he has to taste, so he does, dipping down and kissing Harry hard, getting his mouth open and panting, losing time in the subduction, in the salty-spicy way he smells. 

They don’t get much stargazing done at all; instead, they make out and roll around until Louis’s elbows and knees are scuffed up from sun-bleached wood. He probably has splinters, but he doesn’t _care_. Harry is kissing him like he’ll die without it, chasing his lips desperately every time he pulls away to breathe or just to _look_ , stunned that this is happening, that something he’s wanted for so long and with such paralyzing intensity is right _here_ , in his arms. 

They’re both hard, and he can feel Harry against his leg when he pushes it up between his thighs, but it feels so fucking good to just _kiss_ Harry that he’s not in a rush, not _really_. He’s perfectly happy to rub his hands lazily all over the flickering muscles in his back right now, to suck his tongue and make him whimper, to tug fistfuls of his hair, to make each kiss so wet and thorough and long that his chin is slick with spit, his lips are stinging and numb and swollen. He kisses Harry deeply and deliberately, holding his head steady and fucking him open with his tongue until the kissing ebbs into something slow and gentle, little flicks at the corner of Harry’s huge, obscene mouth, gentle presses of their lips together, soft and slotted. Louis is doing just that, kissing Harry softly with his lips, enjoying the slow and lingering brushes of their mouths together, when Harry shudders, throwing his head back, teeth chattering. “God,” he whimpers, trembling, “I can’t believe this is happening.” 

Louis’s stomach flips because _he can’t either_. “Really?” he asks, kissing down Harry’s jaw, not able to keep his mouth off him. 

“Yeah,” Harry whispers, cupping Louis’s face, thumbing along his cheekbones. His eyes look ridiculously black in the night. “All summer, I was so…fuck. I was so ridiculous, kept doing such ridiculous shit, like carrying your stuff and making you spoon me on the overnight hike because I was convinced I could be really, really obvious, and you’d never notice that I liked you. I didn’t think anything could happen, I was sure of it. But, like…,” he inhales raggedly, turning his head and hiding his face in Louis’s arm, cheeks flushed and hot against his bicep, “here we are.” 

Louis tangles his fingers in Harry’s hair, makes a fist, and tugs him away from the crook of his elbow so that he can _look_ , search his face, see him like this, up close. “ _Why_ did you think nothing could happen?” he asks, throat so tight, chest aching. Because… _fuck_. Harry was so confusing, so hot and cold, all because he, like Louis, had for _some reason_ already decided it was impossible. He shakes his head when Harry doesn’t answer, looking up at him with wide eyes instead, suddenly uncertain. Louis ducks down to kiss the corner of Harry’s mouth. “You’re, like…unbelievably hot. Literally everyone has a crush on you...you could have had anyone at all, it’s not just _me._ ” 

Even in the dark, Louis can see Harry flush. “No. You’re way out of my league,” he says, simply and easily, like it’s objective fact or something. Louis is _reeling_.

“That is…absolutely untrue,” he sputters, stunned that Harry could _think_ such a thing when he’s literally the most attractive boy Louis has ever _seen_ , let alone sucked off. “You’re delusional.” 

“Well…I dunno. I mean, I’m fine now, like, I grew up a little and started dressing better, but I just thought there was no way you’d ever be able to see that or notice when you _also_ knew me when I was sixteen and, like, _so_ embarrassing. I thought you’d just see me forever as the annoying JC who followed you around and worshipped you,” Harry explains, and Louis can’t fully _see_ him blush in the dark, but he can feel how squirmy he is, can feel the waves of heat coming off his face. He thinks about telling Harry the truth, _I liked you even when you were sixteen and embarrassing, and you were never an annoying JC, and I didn’t even know you worshipped me. Can you please elaborate so I can properly rethink everything I’ve been doing for the last two years and possibly cry about the tragedy of lost time?_ It’s a lot, though, and he’s half-worried it will seem creepy, so he doesn’t take it there, at least not yet. 

Louis unsticks his suddenly very dry mouth enough to say, “Excuse me _what_? Are you suggesting you’ve liked me for longer than, like…the last few days, when you realized how proficient I am with a riding crop?” He’s half-joking, but Harry writhes under him and groans when he says it, hips rolling in a jerky, involuntary motion. 

“ _Fuck_ , Louis,” he whimpers, voice thick and low. “That was _so embarrassing_...I was so turned on, I felt crazy, like, I couldn’t control myself, I’m so sorry, just, like…you kept saying the word _bareback_ , and you look amazing in those horse-riding pants, and you were so fucking gorgeous when you were riding…I was dying. I’m sorry if all of that was really weird.” 

Louis’s head is fucking spinning; he can’t think, not with Harry all hard and breathless and mortified under him, telling him he was checking him out when he was riding, that he was hard when Louis hit him, all of these things he didn’t _know_ but wanted to be true so badly. “It wasn’t weird, it was hot...you fucked me up so badly, too,” Louis reassures him, getting Harry’s chin between his thumb and forefinger so he can turn his head, tilt him so they’re facing each other and Harry isn’t hiding. “I just…I didn’t know you were looking at me. I thought it was all me.” 

Harry laughs brokenly. “I am literally always looking at you, Louis. Have been since forever,” he murmurs, hands flickering nervously where they’re resting on Louis’s shoulder, like they want to tighten, grip him and pull him closer, but he’s not sure if it’s okay. 

“This summer? Or before, too? How long?” Louis asks, desperately needing to know if things have always seemed so rich and charged between him and Harry because they _were_ , if he’s been hung up on the same boy for two years because that boy was maybe hung up on him, too. It’s a heady thought, so heady he’s dizzy, vision sparkling as he watches Harry and tracks his face for giveaways. Harry chews his lips for a second, like he’s contemplating whether or not his answer will scare Louis away, and there’s not a single chance of that so Louis thumbs over his soft mouth before kissing the corner of it very gently and saying, “I won’t freak out.” 

Harry inhales shakily, palming up into Louis’s hair and muttering, “Since we met, basically,” and Louis feels him flush even deeper, the hot rush of blood against his lips as he mouths over Harry’s cheek, awed and shivering and elated, stunned to silence. Harry takes another deep breath before it huffs out into a nervous laugh and adds, “Like…god…Louis, this is so embarrassing, but you’re, like…how I figured out I’m gay?”

“What?!” Louis yelps, digging his thumbs into the hollows under Harry’s clavicles as a tingling wave of of overwhelm crashes over his head at this revelation. He’s never thought of himself as the type of person who could possibly lead to sexuality crisis, let alone for someone like _Harry_ , someone who seems so effortless, so confident. “Really?!” 

“Oh, my god, _yes_ , I know, it’s so lame,” Harry groans, shaking his head so his hair snags against the dock. “It’s just…I had never even met a gay guy in real life before you! Or, like, my uncle who’s old but never another teenager. Like, I knew it was a thing, and I was sort of theoretically attracted to guys but only, like…actors or singers, so I wasn’t really sure… and then I came to camp at sixteen and met you, and you were _so_ , like, comfortable with yourself and so hilarious and sexy, and I had the most massive crush on you _instantly_ ,” he explains, and Louis feels like he’s dying, like all his organs are just shriveling up in absolute astonishment as Harry Styles, who _he’s_ had a massive crush on for two years, tells him he apparently had a massive crush on _Louis_. It’s too much to process, and his neck can’t support the weight of his head in this moment, so he drops his brow to Harry’s to relieve it, and their foreheads nod together, noses bumping. “I used to look at you in the locker room and jerk off in the showers fantasizing about you kissing me and touching me and showing me how to do stuff,” Harry admits, eyes fluttering closed, hard cock burning Louis’s thigh where they’re pressed flush. “So embarrassing.” 

“ _Used to_?” Louis breathes. “Not anymore?” Their lips brush together, and Harry shudders, eyes shot through with pupil, and Louis is _stunned_ by how obviously, openly _into him_ Harry is. It’s fucking insane. He feels stupid for missing it. 

“Well, then it happened,” Harry whispers, and Louis feels drunk on his breath, the salty-copper human smell of him. “S’crazy, and I’m, like…not over it.” 

“Fuck, don’t get over it, Harry,” Louis murmurs before dipping down and kissing him hard and deep and certain. Harry surges up into him, and their teeth clack together, but it still feels perfect, wet and desperate and rough-sweet all at once. _Don’t get over me,_ Louis thinks, hands in Harry’s hair, tongue flicking over the roof of his mouth. _Please_.

They kiss and kiss until Harry is making these _noises_ , obscene and ragged and deep in his throat as Louis fucks up against him dry but with purpose, working his hips into Harry’s so their cocks grind together through their shorts. They keep it up until Louis can’t stand it anymore, can’t stand knowing he’s allowed to touch Harry’s skin without taking full advantage of it, so he rolls off him until they’re side by side, and with one hand tangled in Harry’s curls to keep him steady, he works the other under his waistband to wrap his fingers around Harry’s length. His stomach flips over at the way he feels, satin over steel and so hot he _burns_. 

“Fuck, fuck,” Harry hisses, hips locking up before they stutter messily in rhythmless thrusts. “Can’t believe this is happening,” he says again, rolling his head away from Louis’s grip to create tension, to pull his own hair. It makes Louis’s stomach drop, one of many things that make him suspect Harry probably likes it to hurt a little. Louis tugs experimentally, and Harry keens, face crumpling into something broken, lovely. 

“You like it to hurt,” Louis muses, voice quiet with awe as he jacks Harry off, pulling on him fast and deliberate, hand moving easily because he’s so fucking _wet._ “Almost came in the tack room while I hit you. So fucking beautiful, Harry, you kill me,” he murmurs, rubbing his thumb through the slick at Harry’s cock head, dizzy with the knowledge that his hand is gonna smell like Harry after this, how good it will taste to lick Harry off his palm. 

“Fuck,” Harry repeats, cock pulsing in Louis’s grip. “Yeah, s’that okay? That I like that?” 

“ _Yes_ ,” Louis breathes, mind already a chaotic, ambitious mess of images: Harry tied to his bed frame with the old pair of leather split reins he never uses but still has, Harry’s soft, white ass plump and bruised with bite marks, dappled purple in the shape of his favorite crop. Harry broken and begging under him, ruined in equal parts pain and softness. Louis knows how to give both those things, how to fuse control and trust. You need that with horses, but he can think of one thousand ways to generalize it and give it to Harry, too. He tightens his fist and pulls Harry’s hair sharply, heart tripping over itself as he cries out and rolls his hips. “You’re so hot, jesus, look at you,” Louis groans, hand making a wet, lewd _snick snick_ sound in the darkness as he tugs on Harry’s cock, more roughly and relentlessly than he’d like for himself, but he can tell Harry loves it, is so _close_ by the way his balls are tightening up, by the way he’s flexing in Louis’s hand. “Want you to come for me,” he whispers, and he means _anytime in the near future...I’m perfectly content jacking you off until you do_ , but as soon as it leaves his mouth, Harry lets out a strangled noise into the night before arching his back and spilling in a sudden hot spurt over Louis’s fingers. “ _Fuck, jesus,_ ” Louis gasps, stunned, rocking into Harry’s body with his own hips to get some pressure on his cock because this is easily one of the hottest things that has ever happened to him in his entire life, and he feels like he could come, too, just from watching Harry lose it in pearlescent ribbons all over his abs.

Harry finishes and crumples, melting into a puddle of loose limbs and shivers on the dock, nipples drawn up into tight points on his heaving chest, which looks silver in the moonlight. Louis stares, dizzy and lost and in love, stomach in knots. He untangles his fingers from Harry’s hair so that he can push his shirt up around his neck with a shaking hand, and then he bends his neck and affixes his mouth to Harry’s nipple, groaning faintly as he sucks, chews, and gets his hot, sweat-damp skin under his tongue, between his teeth. 

Harry just lets him suck, whimpering and carding a hand through the back of his hair as Louis collects all the come off his torso with his hand and uses Harry’s load to jack himself off furiously. That’s how he comes, mouth open and gasping on Harry’s chest, his come all over his cock. Then he collapses, too, hand still tucked limply in his shorts, head lolling heavily on Harry’s shoulder. “Ugh,” he exhales, dizzy and trembling and used up in the best sort of way. “How are you like this?” he asks, and he doesn’t even know what he _means_ , if he’s asking, _How do you like me so much?_ or _How are you so perfect?_ , but regardless Harry huffs out a laugh, chest vibrating under the weight of Louis’s head. 

“How are _you_? You’re, like, every single one of my fantasies. Literally. But also better,” Harry says, nodding into Louis’s hair and snuffling, big hands all over his shoulders. “I can’t fucking believe it, but I’m so happy. I’m so happy you gave me a chance even after witnessing me in, like, the _height_ of my awkward phase.” 

Louis, again, does not tell Harry that he would have been all over him at sixteen, awkward phase or not. He just sighs happily, freeing his sticky hand from his waistband and wiping the mess all over his shorts. “It wasn’t _that_ awkward,” he says instead, settling into the warmth of Harry’s body and turning to cast his gaze to the sky, finally noticing how many fucking stars there are above them, watching them. “You were cute,” he sighs, feeling like he’s in a _dream_ , like this can’t possibly be happening to him, no matter how warm and solid Harry feels against him.

“I was _not_ ,” Harry snorts, covering his face with his hand. “I was awful. Also, totally weird. Like, even though I’ve wanted you for _forever_ ”--and Louis’s stomach plummets to hear that, his smile is such a wild unbroken thing--“I’m sort of glad it didn’t happen until now. It’s better this way...you would have broken my fucking heart then, even if you had liked me and something had happened.” 

_I did like you_ , is the first thing Louis thinks, followed shortly by, _and I never, ever would have broken your heart. I would have been so gentle with it, Harry_. He doesn’t say either of those things, though, just furrows his brow, tracing his fingers idly up the divots in Harry’s ribcage, over the thud of his heart. “Why do you think that?” he asks instead. 

“Because I was lame and, like…I dunno, wanted too much. It never would have worked out, even if you _had_ noticed me,” he continues, combing his fingers gently through Louis’s overgrown fringe, adjusting it over his brow. “God, I was such an immature mess at sixteen. I would have wanted you all to myself, would have gotten all jealous and unfair when anyone looked at you. Like…I would have wanted you to be my _boyfriend_ and known it was ridiculous and impractical and stuff but not even cared…or hated myself for wanting things I couldn’t have. I wouldn’t have known how to keep it casual, I guess. Would have clung way too tight and scared you away.” 

Louis’s blood ices over, scalp prickling. This…this is a lot to process, and he’s trying not to let certain words barb their way into his skin or to take anything out of context, but it stings to hear Harry say _boyfriend_ in the same sentence as _ridiculous_ and _impractical_. To hear him talk about wanting things with Louis but only in the past tense. His stomach clenches up, body physically tensing enough that Harry notices, slides a hand down the back of his neck and cups him there. “Don’t worry,” he says gently. “I promise I won’t get weird.” 

Louis’s heart sinks. He thinks, _I want you to get weird, please get weird_ , but instead he sucks in an unsteady breath, trying to loosen up, relax. He’s lying curled up under the stars on a dock in a glittering lake with the boy of his dreams. Whatever happens tomorrow, wherever this goes, he needs to revel in every second of this, at least, while it’s still happening. He should be grateful to touch Harry at all, to have his spit still sticky on his chin. “I’m not worried about you getting weird,” Louis says eventually, eyes fluttering closed as he shifts closer to Harry, tucking one arm around his chest and drawing him as close as possible, still stunned. “And I don’t think I would have broken your heart, just fyi. I think you imagine me to be more of a heartbreaker than I actually am.” 

“No, you would have,” Harry answers with certainty, rubbing small, idle circles into the back of Louis’s neck, “because I would have just given it to you. I would have given you everything, basically. Now…I know not to expect things. Like, eventually the summer will end, and you’ll go back to college where you probably have a hundred boyfriends all super in love with you, boys way hotter and, like, more experienced than me. I just…I didn’t know how to protect myself then. I do now.” 

Louis doesn’t know how to feel. _You don’t need to protect yourself_ , he thinks desperately, _and I don’t have a hundred boyfriends, I don’t want a hundred boyfriends, I just want one, I just want you_. He swallows thickly, rubbing his face into Harry’s chest to make sure he’s real, he’s still here, even if he doesn’t want the same things as Louis, even if he’s thinking about the summer ending and _this_ ending with no real concern or fear or disappointment in his voice. And Louis knows he should be okay with that, but it makes him feel frantic, makes him want to dig his nails in and pull Harry into him and kiss him breathless, tell him to _stay_ , to _try_. That Louis could make it so, so good, if he would only let him. “What…,” he starts, chest nothing but butterflies and heart palpitations, fluttering and acidic. “What do you want? Like, from all of this?” Louis makes himself ask, hand flattening out over Harry’s sternum, where he can feel the thrum of his heart. 

Harry’s quiet for a moment, and Louis can’t take it, so he tilts his head up so he can _look_ , find Harry’s eyes in the moonlight, half-lidded and glistening and black. He loves him so fucking fiercely in this moment that it splits him apart, so many fragments of want and loneliness flying off into the night, disappearing, leaving him bare. The feeling makes his stomach clench up again in aimless, useless longing as he shifts his weight and props himself up on his elbow so he can properly see Harry, all the cuts and angles in his face made stark by the moonlight. “You can be honest with me,” he says then, voice nothing but breath.

Harry reaches for him, pulling him down, and he goes easily because he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to resist Harry’s sway. He lets Harry nuzzle into his neck where he inhales softly and serenely before saying, “M’honestly just content to take whatever you’re willing to give me. I’m trying hard not to want anything more than that. Or, um, to have any, like… expectations,” he explains, voice rumbling against the thunder of Louis’s pulse. And he’s saying a lot of words, but he’s not exactly _answering the question_ , and Louis still doesn’t know what that _means_ , what he really _wants_. He can’t ask for clarification, though, not when Harry is close enough to kiss, lips still soft from saying, _whatever you’re willing to give me._

_Everything, anything_ , he thinks as he tilts his head to fit their mouths together again, swallowing Harry’s muffled whimper, threading his fingers through his hair. He can’t _say_ it, though; his words have run dry, and Harry’s mouth is so wet and incomprehensibly sweet, so he tries to put everything inside of it, every truth and confession, saying what he can’t say with his voice into his kisses instead. _I’ll give you every single thing you want, Harry, just let me. I’ll give you my heart. I’ll give you an endless summer_ , he prays with his lips, kissing and kissing, until they’re both raw again, gasping as the lake licks quietly at the dock, drowning them out.


	10. Chapter 10

They stagger back to the cabin too close to dawn, which is probably an unwise pattern to adopt so early on in the summer, but Louis is living day to day, moment to moment at this point. He can’t worry about how prolonged exhaustion is going to affect his lessons the next day, but as he tacks up Bella the following morning with slow, clumsy hands and a terrible sleep-deprived ache in his chest, he considers the fact that maybe he _should_ worry. He cinches her girth too fast and too tight on accident, and she doesn’t appreciate it one bit, snapping in the air before whipping her head around and biting Louis on the thigh, so lightning-quick he doesn’t even realize what’s happening, just that his leg is suddenly subject to electric, searing _agony_. He doubles over, clutching pathetically at his own thigh muscle. “ _Ouch_!” he yelps, mouth falling open as he stares up at Bella in utter betrayal. His quadricep is _throbbing_ ; horse bites hurt _so fucking bad_ , as one might expect from an animal with _giant fucking teeth._

“What happened to you?” Zayn sighs as he comes up behind Louis at the cross ties, brushing dirt off his hands before wiping the sweat beaded on his brow. He looks beautiful and put together, like some fucking modelesque extra from a Western, and it’s annoying, really, for Louis to witness someone who has clearly gotten a normal amount of sleep in the last two days. Louis rights himself, glaring in the sunlight. 

“Bella _nailed_ me while I was tightening her girth. Probably my fault, and I should have seen it coming, but _fuck_. I’m gonna have a massive bruise, I can already tell,” he gripes, standing with his hands on his hips and feeling altogether pessimistic about the rest of the day. They already had a kid very nearly fall off during the first lesson (in Louis’s defense, he was _totally paying attention_ , and it’s not _his fault_ some children have the body control and self-awareness of a partially cooked noodle), it’s been a particularly sweltering morning, and Louis has a hickey under the collar of his shirt that he can’t stop touching, even though it hurts. Physically, yes (Harry _bruised_ him, which is wonderful), but also emotionally, because, like…it’s not permanent, which makes Louis think about all the other things that also might not be permanent. 

To add insult to injury, Zayn raises an eyebrow and says, “You’ve been bitchy all morning, did Harry break up with you already? Like, before you guys even started dating?” Louis must look remarkably crestfallen because Zayn immediately takes it back, face softening before he mumbles, “M’kidding, Tommo. How are you guys?” 

“Fine, wonderful,” he snaps, followed by, “he’s _so_ wonderful,” in a whimper, throwing his head back, “but, like…last night, we snuck out to mess around by the lake, and we talked some, and he said…I don’t know. A lot of stuff, and I don’t really know what to make of any of it. Like, apparently he’s been into me as long as I’ve been into him? And I had no fucking idea?”

Zayn grins, tossing the reins over Peaches’s head and unclipping her halter from the cross ties to take her to the arena for the second lesson. “Not to say I told you so, but…I told you so,” he says, shooting Louis a smug look. “Shame I didn’t make any formal bets on that one.” 

“Shame _I_ didn’t listen to you two years ago and ask him to marry me back when he would have said yes,” Louis sighs, warily checking Bella’s girth a final time. “He gave me some speech about how, like…he used to want a boyfriend, but now he’s self-preserving, and I don’t ‘have to worry’ about, like…him ‘getting weird.’ Little does he know how fucking _weird_ I am, apparently. Like, how ironic and terrible is it that I had such a crush on the only other teenager who wasn’t into casual hookups and stuff, but I didn’t realize he felt the same way until he was _over that_ and instead decided he was gonna be _realistic_ and _practical_? Ugh, like, fuck practicality, Zayn. Why can’t I just skip this whole dating and second-guessing bullshit and wake up when I’m thirty and engaged?” 

Zayn sighs dramatically, dragging the plastic mounting block into the arena. The kids are already within earshot, on their way from their last unit and shrieking with laughter as the JCs bring them over to their group, so Zayn shoots him the look that means _this is a very big can of worms you just opened up in a moment where we can’t really deal with cans OR worms_. “So, you’re pretty sure he wants something casual now?” he asks in a lowered voice. 

“I don’t know,” Louis snaps under his breath, adjusting Bella’s stirrups so they’re longer because this is a generally older group of kids. “I asked him flat out about it, and he was, like…super vague. Basically said something along the lines of, ‘I want whatever you want,’ and didn’t really answer my question at all.” 

“Um, yes, he did,” Zayn sighs, making a face, and Louis is about to widen his eyes and say, _excuse me, but I don’t remember you being there last night,_ when Zayn adds, “you just _said_ that he told you he wants whatever you want. Like, that’s what you say when you’re trying to play it cool. He’s probably as weird and domestic as you are, like… Louis, you’re older and he’s probably following your lead. Also,. _he wants what you want._ What do you want? And please don’t say to marry him because m’gonna hit you, and the horses will hate that.”

Louis blinks, suddenly caught off guard. He wants…god. He wants so much. It seems like an impossible magnitude, more than he could ever ask of someone as young and brilliant and magnetic as Harry Styles. _I want to be his and for him to be mine. To fall asleep after kissing him goodnight between his shoulder blades, to wake up with him every morning still sleepy and slow and snoring under my arm. I want to see his face blotchy from crying, I want to hear how hoarse his voice gets when he has a cold, I want to learn how he takes his tea and what his favorite TV shows are and see his hometown library and meet his sister. I want to travel with him and argue over who has the remote and fuck him on my bed back home and see how pretty his skin looks against those navy blue sheets. I want everything_. Louis inhales raggedly, cheeks suddenly hot, throat dry. “I want him to be my boyfriend,” he croaks, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand defensively. “Which is stupid because, like...we’re coworkers, and camp’s gonna end in a month and a half, and he lives on the other side of California, but, like…I dunno, that doesn’t stop me from wanting it. And no matter what, when it comes down to it, _I’m not like you_. I can’t enjoy casual relationships that don’t mean anything. I fall in love, and I want more, and that’s just how I _am_. So I don’t know if I even _could_ do something casual if that was what he wanted, you know?” 

Zayn shrugs. “If he’s not lying about wanting whatever you do, which I don’t think he is because Harry is, like, a weirdly genuine person, then maybe _he_ doesn’t actually like causal relationships either. Maybe he’s a romantic sap like you, and you guys deserve each other.” 

Louis very much likes the idea of he and Harry deserving each other. It fits, it feels right. Like…maybe Zayn, for all his good intentions and patient, carefully worded guidance, is the odd one out in this situation. “Maybe. But, like…regardless, I know you keep telling me it’s a bad idea and too soon, but I really, really feel like I need to just be honest with him. Tell him how I feel and what I want. Like… _fuck_ , Zayn, I’m already so in love with him. If we keep hooking up all summer and don’t know where it’s going or what it means, it’s gonna fucking kill me. You can do that, and I guess you and Liam can do that, but I can’t.” 

The kids are starting to line up outside the arena, and they should really go collect them so they can start mounting up for the lesson, but Louis is waiting on Zayn, whose flattening out his mouth into a thin line, a groove through his brow as he furrows it thoughtfully. “Louis,” he says eventually, sighing, “I’m not you, and I’m not Harry. You’re my best friend, and I’ll help you as best I can with this shit, but ultimately…you have to make that call on your own. If you want to confess your love to Harry Styles literally two days after figuring out he’s into you…go for it,” he finishes, shrugging. “It’s not my style, and it’s the polar opposite of chill, but like you said, we’re different.” 

Louis feels something open up inside his chest, light and fluttery and impossible and huge, like a whole entire flock of birds taking off from his sternum, filling him up with the beat of wings, the rustle of wind. He turns away from Zayn, flicking his gaze up to the sun until his eyes burn behind the lenses of his aviators, stinging in the unwavering brightness. And in this moment, even without Zayn’s approval or any certainty whatsoever that telling Harry how he feels is going to turn out right or get him what he wants in the end, he feels hopeful about the future. At least it’s honest. He thinks Harry deserves honesty, come whatever. 

He takes a deep breath, ribcage aching with the promise of vulnerability, a limitless expansion rending him apart like the whole of the blue sky above him is actually inside him, splitting him open. It burns, but it also feels good. _Like an endless summer_ , he thinks, before hooking his arm around Zayn’s shoulder and squeezing him. “Thanks,” Louis tells him, “for listening to me cry.” 

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Just do your job and teach this lesson with me,” he mutters, “so we can go get lunch.” 

Louis grins at him, batting his lashes. 

Then he begins to hatch a plan. 

—-

Instead of sitting down with his friends at lunch, Louis searches the mess hall for Naomi, Harry’s favorite camper. He finds her sitting in the back corner with a few other horse girls, all of them sunburned and dirty and delighted to see him, grinning hugely as he scoots in next to Naomi, crowding across the table to get to him like he might be hiding a horse under his shirt or something. “Louis!” they screech, petting his hair and hanging off his neck. “Did you bring us something? How’s Oliver? Where’s Zayn?”

“Oi, one at a time,” he scolds, pushing them off. “I didn’t bring you anything, just the pleasure of my company! Oliver is fine, eating his lunch, too. And Zayn is over there, somewhere…we’re not actually attached at the hip, you know.” 

“You’re always together,” one of the girls observes, making a skeptical face, like she’s pretty sure they actually _are_ attached at the hip. “I hardly ever see you with anyone else.” 

“I see you with Harry,” Naomi announces, crossing her arms. 

Louis raises his brows at her because she’s sort of understated and quiet and observant, and that is _precisely_ why he’s here. “Okay, girls, I have a secret mission for Naomi and a secret mission for you lot, so everyone gather ‘round for instructions, okay?” 

They all lean into him, eyes wide and eager, elbows on the table. “Madison, Amanda, Katie,” he announces, addressing Naomi’s friends, “Zayn is very sad today, and I need you all to find him at that table by the door and cheer him up. Hug him, sing to him, and force him to give you piggyback rides,” he dictates, and they grin mischievously, three terrifying, plotting sorts of grins. Louis doesn’t envy Zayn, but he needs the other girls to disappear momentarily so that he can talk to Naomi alone, and Zayn is the person he’s willing to sacrifice to achieve this. “Think you can handle that?” 

“Yeah!” they all cheer, already stumbling away from the table and tripping over each other to go attack Zayn with love. Louis watches them go, waiting until they’re all the way on the other side of the mess hall before turning to Naomi, who has her hands folded politely as she awaits instruction. It’s very cute, and Louis can see why Harry likes her. 

“Okay, you have the most important mission, but don’t tell your friends I told you that. Actually, don’t tell anyone about this mission at all. It’s super top secret,” he confides in her, leaning close and lowering his voice. 

She nods solemnly. “Okay, what do I do?” 

“I need some art supplies, but I don’t want Harry to know. I’m making something for him, and it’s a surprise,” he explains. 

She purses her lips, wrinkling her very freckled nose in suspicion. “Are you sure he’s not your brother?” 

Louis makes a face. “Naomi, I am absolutely _certain_ he’s not my brother. Can you help me or not?” he snaps, narrowing his eyes. “I’m sure there are plenty of _other_ campers who might be willing to help me make something for Harry, but—”

“No, no, I’ll help,” she interrupts urgently, not wanting to miss out on anything involving her (and Louis’s) favorite counselor. “Cross my heart and hope to die. What art stuff do you need?” 

“Good,” Louis says, ducking his head toward her conspiratorially. “I’ll need construction paper, stickers, and some glitter glue, if you guys have that. Back in my day, we just squirted the glue onto the paper and then put glitter on top of it and let it dry like peasants, but it’s my understanding that, _nowadays_ , you kids have actual glue that _comes out glittery_? Is this true? I need minimal messiness,” he says, looking shiftily over his shoulder to make sure no one is listening before craning his neck to spy on cabin 14C’s table. He can see Niall and Harry cracking up as Zayn battles three little girls climbing all over him like he’s a literal jungle gym. It’s perfect. Zayn looks flustered, but Liam is helping him, supervising the whole thing with that concerned look on, and Zayn is probably eating it up because he _likes_ that. Louis smiles to himself, pleased. 

“I think so,” Naomi muses. “It doesn’t come in a bottle, though, there are pens. Glitter-glue pens, like tubes, you squeeze them,” she explains, demonstrating. 

“Sounds perfect. One of those...I don’t care what color. You think you can sneak all that stuff without Harry noticing? Maybe you can get Perrie to help you? You can tell her I said it was okay.” 

“Sure,” Naomi says, shrugging very noncommittally. “What kind of stickers?” 

“Any stickers. Animal stickers. If there are any mermaids or baby giraffes, that would be preferable, but I’m not _that_ picky,” he adds, shrugging. 

“No giraffes, but we have horses,” she offers, perking up and cocking her head. “Would those work?” 

“Ah, perfect! Horses it is. You got all that?” he asks, chewing the inside of his cheek and wondering if he can truly trust a child with such an delicate, monumental operation. “Harry _really_ can’t know. Pinky-promise me you won’t tell him it’s for me, okay?” 

Naomi spits on her hand, which must be some new pinky-promise protocol because Louis never did anything so vile and horrible when _he_ was a kid. “What are you doing?! God, glitter glue and slobber, kids these days,” he sighs. “Okay, so what do I do? I’m old...we used to just join pinkies together and call it a day.” 

Naomi rolls her eyes, as if she finds Louis’s ineptitude tiresome. It’s kind of refreshing. It means she’s all business, which is what he needs. “Hold out your hand,” she orders, “and spit.” Louis does as he’s told, even though it’s disgusting. “Now high five…now clap your hands together, back, forth…okay, now the pinkies.” 

Louis stumbles his way through the complex ritual, cringing because he has a mixture of his own saliva and some _kid’s_ on his palm. He’s gonna have to wash it six times in the bathroom after this because somehow it’s way grosser than horse dirt and sweat and every other nasty thing he’s touched today. “Is this really necessary?” he asks Naomi once it’s done, wiping his hands on his breeches and cringing. 

“Duh,” Naomi answers, shrugging. “So I’ll get you the stuff tomorrow and bring it to the horse unit in the afternoon?” 

“Perfect! Naomi you are a lifesaver,” Louis praises, reaching out and ruffling her flyaway blonde hair with his spitty palm. “Remember, don’t tell anyone, especially not Harry.” 

“Okay,” she says, tearing off a bite of her peanut butter and jelly, not seeming to care that she has Louis’s spit on her hands. Whatever, kids are weird. Louis turns on his heel and heads over to his table to save Zayn, who’s still buckled under the weight of three little girls, struggling like a gazelle getting taken down by hyenas or something. 

He tries to sidle up surreptitiously, but Niall sees him coming and announces it. “Tommo!” he crows, pointing. “Where have you been?! You missed it...they just came up and attacked Zayn unprovoked, absolutely hilarious.” 

“Right, unprovoked,” Zayn sputters, still floundering under them as they cling to him and giggle, squeezing him hard enough that his eyes look a little buggy. “I sort of think this might be his fault.” 

Louis grins, holding his hands up. “Guilty,” he admits airily, gaze flicking inevitably to Harry, who’s flushed and lovely where he sits at the table, chasing his straw absentmindedly and obscenely with his tongue as he watches the spectacle, dimples caved in. He’s too bright to look at for very long, a smudge of sun, and he has marker all over his hands for some impossibly charming reason. Louis blinks, smiling so hard his cheeks ache. “Okay, okay, girls, that’s enough. He’s properly cheered up now, but _thank you_ , I appreciate it. Job well done,” he adds, peeling the girls off and ushering them back down the aisle between the tables gently before turning back to Zayn. “So it was my fault, but at least I delivered you from evil, too, right?” he asks cheerily, hands on his hips. 

Zayn glares at him, eyes dark and cheeks very red. Liam’s standing sympathetically behind him, lightly setting his hands on his shoulders when Zayn mumbles, “I think they punctured my left lung.” 

“They do hold on tight...surprisingly strong, little girls,” Liam says sagely, and this is probably how he flirts, so Louis doesn’t want to look anymore, wrinkling his nose and collapsing onto the bench between Niall and Harry. It’s a tight space, so one of his thighs ends up splayed over Harry’s lap. 

“Hi,” he says breathlessly, staying put, pressed close even as Niall shifts cluelessly away to give him more room. “Did you draw all over your hands on purpose, or are you really that bad at coloring inside the lines?” he teases, loving the way Harry turns pink, nose crinkling cutely as his eyes skate down to where their legs are touching. 

“Stop,” he murmurs, eyes glittering with a sort of helpless darkness. They’re too black for them not being alone together, and Louis’s stomach swoops. “I like it too much when you tease me.” 

_Oh_ , and that…that. Louis fidgets in sudden overwhelm, eyebrows flying to his hairline because Harry is fucking _unbelievable_ ; he can’t say shit like that at the _fucking lunch table_ and expect Louis to survive. “Oh?” he asks, voice thin. “Do you?” 

Harry nods, grabbing his fork and pushing his salad around nervously, chewing on his lip. “Yeah.” 

“I see,” Louis murmurs, hooking his ankle around Harry’s under the table and shuffling their feet together for a moment before swinging their twined legs playfully. “So, guess what happened today, first thing in the morning?” he asks, stealing a glance at Harry’s profile, the cut of his jaw and the pout of his lips, everything flushed and antsy and perfect. 

“What?” Harry asks, eyes getting wide. 

“One of the horses bit me. Straight up took a huge chunk out of my thigh while I was putting her saddle on. It’s totally swollen, look,” he says, taking Harry’s hand and folding all but his first and middle fingers toward his palm, loving the way Harry’s breath catches, the way he trembles. Then he draws those fingers down his thigh gently, letting Harry graze over the obvious swelling on his leg. Harry flinches, breath suddenly coming short and strangled. 

“Oh, my god! No! I can totally feel that,” he gasps, wincing himself, like he was the one bitten. “I knew it, they’re actually hostile aliens! They don’t come in peace.” 

“It was my fault...I know that particular horse doesn’t like her girth tightened, and I was distracted. Can’t imagine why I might be distracted, but I was,” he jokes, rolling his eyes in mock exasperation as he lets go of Harry’s hand, the brush of skin tingling with charge. “She _did_ break the skin, though. It’s ugly...wanna see?” 

“See?” Harry asks breathlessly, eyes so fucking wide and green that Louis feels like he could go swimming in them, fall headlong into them and drown. Harry cuts those too-green eyes down to Louis’s thighs, and his tongue flickers out over his bottom lip. “Like… _here_?” 

“ _No_ , I have to take my pants off to show you. Meaning you should follow me to the bathroom,” he suggests as if it’s an idle, nonchalant, not-at-all-suggestive suggestion. He feels Harry heat up, feels him shudder, breath hissing out of him sharply. 

“Okay,” Harry says, perhaps too quickly, but Louis _loves_ how transparent he is, how uncool, how unchill, how fucking wild and willing and eager he is to follow where Louis might lead. 

They trip away from the table and down the aisle to the bathroom just like yesterday, reckless and stupid and perhaps too quickly. But Louis doesn’t care; Harry is right there behind him, starry-eyed and stumbling and smiling, smiling, smiling. 

—-

The following day, Louis very nearly dies in the midst of a valiant battle with a glitter-glue tube, but he manages to come out on top. He uses his lunch break to add the finishing touches to his Secret Mission Card, managing to _not_ glue it to himself in the process, although his fingers are sticking to everything, he has glitter under his nails, and his masterpiece is around ten times less pretty and well-crafted than Harry’s, but at least it exists, and at least it’s legible. It’s a simple piece of green construction paper ( _like a pasture, for the horses,_ Naomi explained as she doled out the stolen goods, and Louis sort of felt like he was completing a drug deal with al child, but when you’re in love, you do crazy things, so), and it reads, _Harold: Will you be my boyfriend?_ followed by three boxes labeled _yes, no,_ and maybe. There are metallic horse stickers in all the negative spaces, and Louis has managed to write in cramped script above a pair of smaller-scale stickers (he thinks they’re supposed to be foals instead of ponies, but he’s improvising), “ _if you accept, Bernard and Bianca give us their intergalactic blessing._ ” 

He’s ridiculously nervous as he tucks the card (which is still a little tacky and only half-dried, but no one _told him_ glitter glue is terrifically runny and gross and apparently takes forever to dry) into Harry’s sleeping bag for him to find. He tries to remind himself that his goal is _clarity_ , finding out _for good_ what Harry really wants, defining a future for them for the rest of this summer and maybe beyond that, if it’s something Harry’s interested in. 

But if Harry checks the _no_ box, Louis has to be prepared for that, even if it doesn’t necessarily mean the _end_ of whatever they’re doing together. Harry is indisputably interested in _at least_ fooling around with him, if his barely concealed enthusiasm to sneak off with Louis and get his hands under his clothes and his mouth over whatever he can reach is any indication. But if that’s all he wants…Louis might be able to do it, he might not. He’s not totally sure yet, but at least this glitter-glue horse pasture card will give him _some_ sort of idea how to move forward, of where they’re going. 

Louis strips out of his breeches gingerly, favoring his bruised thigh before pulling on his swim trunks to meet the rest of the boys down at the lake. His heart is pounding, and he sort of feels like he could throw up if he devotes any thought to the inevitable moment Harry finds the card and gives him an answer, so he tries to not think about it at all as he jogs down the steep path from 14C to the main compound. Luckily, when he gets to the lake, Harry’s standing on the shore with his hair wet and slicked back and dripping on his shoulders, and he’s wearing those Yellow Fucking Shorts, so Louis doesn’t have to work too hard to clear his brain. Those shorts sort of do the work for him. 

The rest of the day creeps by too slowly. They hang out by the water with the kids until dinner time, Liam and Louis entertaining everyone by swimming down under the dock to collect giant fistfuls of disgusting lake-weed, silty and dirty and altogether horrible, which they toss directly at Zayn and Harry. It’s totally flirting, but the kids don’t notice; they probably think it’s a display of manly prowess or something, thoroughly invested in watching Harry and Zayn dodge the flying clumps of green-brown slime. Eventually, Liam brings up a handful that has something _alive_ in it, like a bug or a tiny fish or a tadpole, and he flings it away before they have a chance to examine it properly, but everyone’s so grossed out that the game ends abruptly anyway. Louis’s exhausted, and his ears sort of hurt from the pressure of swimming to the lake floor, so he spreads out on the dock, letting the droplets on his chest dry as the sun bakes down on him. 

Harry’s still dog-paddling around in the water with Niall, but at one point he swims to the edge and hoists himself up so his elbows are folded beside Louis, hair dripping onto his legs as he carefully draws a finger down Louis’s swollen thigh. “Looks so painful,” he murmurs, hand cold and pruney from the lake. 

Louis shivers, blinking in the harsh glare of the sunlight as his eyes fly open in surprise. He’s so happy and drowsy that he sort of forgets there are people around as he turns to Harry, smirking openly at him. “Kiss it better then,” he jokes, blood icing over as it leaves his mouth because he doesn’t _mean_ it (or he does, but not _here_ , not with kids playing ten feet away and Liam sitting right behind Louis on the dock like the ultimate bonerkill that he is). Harry looks appropriately scandalized for a second before he recovers, heaving himself up just long enough to press a single, chaste kiss to Louis’s leg, right beside the aching swell of the bite, before crashing back down into the water. 

The contact only lasts for a moment, too fast for anyone to really notice, Harry’s wet lips still cold from the lake gone before Louis even processes they were there in the first place. But his heart tosses violently up into his throat anyway, beating so hard he’s worried it’s going to thud right out of him, choke him, gut him. “Jesus,” he hisses, touching the place where Harry kissed, examining it carefully, half-convinced that Harry left a mark somehow, burnt it into him with some magic infernal softness. Louis glares at Harry as he surfaces to tread water, grinning up at Louis with a mischievous glint, hair artfully slicked across his forehead and curling around his temples. “Better?” he asks innocently, and Louis wants to kiss him so badly it feels like he’s being flayed apart by his own longing. 

Louis shakes his head. “You’re gonna get it,” he murmurs, standing to cannonball into the lake as close to Harry as possible without actually landing on him. 

They spend entirely too long dunking each other and cackling and feeling each other up under the water, fingertips and clumsy hands and slick skin and Harry’s smile up close, in hyper detail. Louis is dizzy and in love and weak with laughter, so the afternoon isn’t a total bust. But still, time is taking _too long_ to pass, and he can’t handle anymore sudden, paralyzing waves of anxiety when he remembers what he left in Harry’s bed. Harry’s going to see it when he goes back to the cabin to change before going to the mess hall, and that leaves the whole agonizing stretch of dinner for Louis to suffer through, knowing Harry has _seen_ the card, has marked off his answer. Louis is pretty sure he won’t be able to eat; he should really stop doing things right before meals because this is another terrible pattern he’s adopted. 

Finally, _finally,_ dinner rolls around, and Harry and Niall towel off and head back to the cabin to change into sweats and hoodies because they both run cold and freeze during campfire if they don’t ditch their swim trunks beforehand. Louis spends the first five minutes of dinner clinging to Zayn’s waist and whimpering wordlessly. Liam goes and gets him a seltzer water because he’s sure he has a stomach ache, which is true but not for the reasons he thinks, and by the time be returns, Louis’s well on his way to a full-blown panic attack, spread out on the table hyperventilating while Zayn pats his head condescendingly. “What did you _do_?” he asks for the tenth time, voice fatigued. Louis doesn’t answer as he’s well past being able to speak beyond a high-pitched wheezing sound. “Well, whatever it is, it probably serves you right for setting those girls on me yesterday at lunch. My ribs are still cracked, probably.”

“Are you dehydrated? Heat sickness, maybe...were you drinking when you taught your lessons this morning? I know it gets hot out there in the arena,” Liam muses, feeling Louis’s forehead and missing literally every important plot point in this saga, as per usual. 

Zayn shakes his head, smiling fondly at Liam because apparently he’s into idiocy. “S’not anything like that...he’s just being dramatic and probably wrote Harry the world’s sappiest love letter because he’s an idiot and doesn’t listen to me,” he explains as Louis wails. Zayn wraps a tendril of his hair around a finger and tugs on it punishingly. “C’mon, Tommo, screaming about it isn’t gonna help. Liam got you some water, look,” he prods gently. 

“Ah, so it’s psychosomatic,” Liam says knowingly, like he actually has any idea what that word means, and Louis would roll his eyes and call him out if he could move or speak, but obviously he’s reduced to animal noises and trembling. Niall and Harry have been gone for fucking _ages_ , way the fuck longer than it usually takes them to change. Something horrible probably happened, and Harry’s probably trying to figure out a gentle way to let Louis down, probably telling Niall _right now_ how he just wants to have a fun summer and kiss Louis without it turning into a whole fucking _thing._ Louis’s about to unstick his throat enough to tell Zayn that his life is probably over when Liam pipes up, “Oh, Harry’s coming back! You can relax now.” 

Louis very nearly vaults under the table to hide, which is the opposite of relaxing, but Zayn holds him back so instead he’s forced to sit up and grip his drinking glass with white-knuckled ferocity, breath coming out short and fast as he looks at Zayn in a panic, eyes wide and silently pleading, _What the fuck do I do?!_

Zayn merely shrugs, which is _not helpful_. “I don’t know what to say! You didn’t even tell me what you did. Just chill, he’s smiling...he doesn't look upset,” and then he turns away, trying to look normal, maybe, because Harry and Niall are sliding into the table opposite Louis, who cannot look up, cannot do anything but stare at his untouched plate and get lightheaded from a lack of oxygen since he abruptly forgot how to inhale. 

“I’m starving!” Niall announces. “Gonna grub...anyone care to join me?!” he asks, too loudly and so obviously that even Liam picks up on the suggestion.So, Harry _did_ talk to him as he _clearly_ knows. Everyone grumbles and sits up, leaving Harry and Louis at the table sitting across from each other awkwardly. Louis still can’t look up so he sits there, probably blanched an unflattering white. 

As soon as they’re properly alone, Harry blurts out, “Hi,” and slides the card across the table to Louis, big hand covering it so Louis can’t see anything but green and glitter and a single lonely horse sticker staring balefully up at him. And suddenly, as he’s faced with the reality of his subpar crafting skills, he feels like a fool. The biggest fool in the world, a seventh-grader with his first crush, leaving valentines in Harry's locker like an absolute _child_ , wanting so many impractical things, reckless dreams. It doesn't even matter that Harry was the one who did it first. He still feels like this moment is the moment his life probably fucking ends, all because he tried to be cute instead of normal. “Here,” Harry says. “I, um, I really liked the glitter glue. It was a nice touch. And, like…obviously, we can’t talk here, but I really, really want to talk. So, after campfire? Is that okay? I have…like, I need to ask you some things and tell you some things.” He sounds nervous, and Louis finally gets enough of a hold on himself to unglue his eyes from the table and flick them up to Harry. 

And…god. He’s so fucking beautiful. His hair is pushed back in an olive green scarf that makes his eyes seem more hazel than usual, so bright and lovely and full of flecked light. He looks _hopeful_ , really, which is actually reassuring, so Louis feels his heart stabilize a little, a strange and preternatural calm washing over him as they meet eyes. Louis’s breath catches, and he swallows thickly. “Yeah, we can talk,” he says evenly as he manages a clipped smile. “Glad you liked the glitter glue...I sort of struggled. I have a newfound respect for the art unit counselors, believe it or not,” he jokes, amazed that he can be witty in spite of his heart palpitations, amazed that neither his hand nor his voice are shaking as he takes the card from Harry without looking at it.

“I’m honored,” Harry says quietly, smiling and spreading his hand out over his heart, fingers splayed. “M’gonna go get some food, but…tonight? After campfire?” he arches his eyebrows, and there it is again, _hope_. Or at least something like it. 

Louis nods, feigning nonchalance. “Sure.” 

Harry beams back at him, shoving his hands into his pockets after getting up. “Okay, perfect,” he says before heading off to the cafeteria line with his head bent, leaving Louis to sit alone and hyperventilate for a few seconds before he works up the nerve to steal a glance at the card. 

There’s a big X in the _maybe_ box. 

Louis lets out a shuddering, exhausted breath. So much for clarity.


	11. Chapter 11

It might be the most surreal campfire of Louis’s entire life, and he has sat through _so_ many surreal campfires in various states of sleep deprivation and exhaustion, including one memorable evening after taking some very bad mushrooms he and Zayn bought from an older counselor two summers ago. He spent that whole campfire in a hazy state of paranoid terror, staring at Ben Winston’s face because it looked a little like it was melting off, totally convinced everyone could tell he had just consumed illegal substances on the job. 

This campfire is worse, however, and that says a lot. Namely, that Harry’s ambivalent _maybe_ is objectively worse than bad mushrooms. 

Louis has hurtled so far over the line of what a reasonable amount of anxiety is that he’s somehow looped back into a state of strange, perhaps artificial, placidity. He’s almost _calm_ for the duration of campfire, although it’s a reckless, _I do not and cannot give a single fuck right now so the woods might as well burn down, it’s cool,_ type of calm. He sits with Zayn and Liam, well aware of the fact that Harry and Niall are on the opposite side of the fire, side by side and close to the front, so that Louis has to suffer through Harry's lovely face half-lit by the warm flicker of the fire every time he looks up, his gaze helplessly drawn to him, bathed in orange glow and dark shadows, flame reflected in his pupils. He keeps chewing on the side of his finger and fiddling with the thread on the cuff of his sweats, visibly nervous, uncomfortable. Likely because he’s only a mere hour or so away from _breaking Louis’s heart_ , probably forever. 

Louis’s head drifts to Zayn’s shoulder in his Miraculous State of Comatose Calm, and he sniffles, thinking that if he’s going to get his heart broken, at least it’s Harry Styles who’s gonna break it. He thinks Harry will probably be a sweet and gentle type of heartbreaker, gracious and apologetic and kind. Louis turns his head, whimpering in Zayn’s neck until he flinches and pulls away, glaring. “You tickle,” he hisses. “You can use me as a pillow, but only if you don’t tickle me.” 

“Okay,” Louis pouts. “He’s gonna break my heart tonight, by the way. You’ll have to scrape me off the ground with a spatula.” He might say it too loudly because some kids in front of them turn around, looking at him suspiciously. “Shhh,” he motions at them, even though they haven’t said anything. He’s a counselor, though, so they listen, shrugging and turning back to the fire. 

“You should probably just not talk,” Zayn whispers, pulling Louis back down to his shoulder and sighing, patting his back comfortingly. Louis sighs, wishing his gaze wasn’t magnetically drawn back to Harry again, who he catches _looking at him_ , lips pursed, a furrow in his brow. He averts his eyes quickly when Louis glances up, but the split-second of contact _hurts_ , turns Louis’s stomach, makes him gasp. _You’re gonna hurt me so badly_ , he thinks, making a defensive fist in his hoodie pocket. _But it was worth it, to kiss you._

They finish with a rousing round of “Country Roads,” and Louis’s so done with everything that he wows all of camp with a phenomenal display of Aguilerian vocal gymnastics. He supposes it pays to stop giving a fuck. As Ben puts out the fire and the kids assemble into lines for the JCs to take them back to their appropriate cabins, Louis tries not to think too much about the way Harry remains seated, head ducked down close to Niall’s, like they’re chatting. Conspiring. Or something. Louis doesn’t want to _know_ , he just wants to get back to 14C as quickly as possible, so he can pretend to be asleep as quickly as possible, so he and Harry can begin Secret Little Rendezvous Part Deux as quickly as possible, so that he can have his heart broken already. That way, he can go about picking up the pieces, moving forward. Figuring out if he can stand to have something casual with Harry, or if he really is an all-or-fucking-nothing type of person. 

“C’mon, Lou, let’s just go,” Zayn says quietly, grabbing Louis’s elbow and steering him gently away from the now smoking embers. “They’ll catch up.” 

They walk arm in arm, and Liam lingers awkwardly close by, finally clapping a heavy hand down on Louis’s shoulder and asking, “So, do I even want to know what happened? Can you talk now?” 

Louis takes a deep breath, throat vaguely sore from his Mariah Carey-level high notes. “I asked Harry to be my boyfriend. He said maybe,” he explains succinctly once they’re properly out of earshot. There it is, the whole terrible confession lying out in the open between them like something dead and attracting flies. Zayn and Liam are silent for a few seconds, looking at Louis expectantly like he has more to share, like Harry’s ambivalence isn’t horrible enough to warrant such drama. 

“Um…,” Liam says eventually, furrowing his brow. “And that’s…bad?” 

“That’s _great_!” Zayn finally explodes, shoving Louis off of him dramatically and staring at him with his mouth hanging open in incredulity. “Louis! Why are you freaking out?! Like, if _Liam_ asked me to be his boyfriend, I wouldn’t say maybe. I would flat out be, like, no, that’s not what I’m looking for, or whatever. I wouldn’t say _maybe_. He’s probably just thinking about logistics and stuff…fuck! I can’t believe you! I actually felt bad for you, and nothing even _happened_.” 

Louis stares back, eyebrows arched over wide eyes, heart pounding. “But this is _Harry_ , not you, he’s probably…like, probably just trying to let me down gently because he’s a really nice guy!” he sputters, feeling very accused and attacked and maybe just a little like he might be overreacting. 

“Good thing I don’t want to be your boyfriend,” Liam chimes in, with predictable insensitivity and impeccably dismal timing. 

Louis is about to round on him and spit out something he doesn’t mean when he hears Harry’s voice, shouting from a distance. “Wait! Wait up…guys! Hold on!” he yells, and Louis would bolt, but his legs don’t work, and Zayn’s grabbing his elbow again. He’s forced to stand there and wait while Harry Styles jogs, trips, and jogs some more up the hill, hair everywhere and skin pale under the buzzing mosquito lamp lighting the path. “Thanks, hi,” he pants, bending over and bracing his hands on his thighs. “I was wondering…Louis, if you wanted to talk now. Ben left the fire, and everyone’s almost gone, we could…or, like, by the lake, wherever. Just. Yeah,” he gets out, looking up at Louis with all-pupil eyes, scared and shining in the darkness. And he doesn’t need to say anything more because Louis’s heart is breaking _right now_ , sharp and sudden. His mouth is still open, but there’s no sound coming out. 

“Sounds _great_ ,” Zayn says cuttingly, answering for Louis and shoving him in Harry’s direction before turning on his heel and shaking his head. “Jesus,” he mutters once he’s a few feet away, Liam in tow. 

Louis has to force his own body to not follow them because even though he desperately wants to be alone with Harry (he _always_ does), he’s also terrified, blood thrumming too quickly and too electric in his veins, Harry’s eyes burning into him.

He swallows thickly, still choked up, and Harry asks quietly, “Is that okay?” 

“Yeah,” he manages, shaking his head. “Yeah. That’s good. Let’s go.” 

They walk in silence, Harry leading them back toward the fire, which is nothing but a faint glow in the distant darkness, floating ahead of them, mired in black. Louis stares at it until it blurs into two distant orange dots, fuzzy and indistinct. “Um,” Harry says at some point, looking over his shoulder before stopping to wait for Louis to catch up. “I just. I’m really, really nervous. I’ve never been so nervous in my life,” he admits, features unreadable in the dark. “M’sorry if I’m acting weird.” 

“It’s okay,” Louis murmurs, worrying his hoodie strings between his fingers. “I’m acting weird, too.” He’s nervous, too, but nervous sort of seems like an understatement for all he’s feeling, so he doesn’t say so. Instead, he fixes his gaze to the trail, watching his Vans crunch along until he works up enough saliva in his mouth to form words again. “Um, why are you so nervous?” 

Harry laughs self-deprecatingly. It’s a soft, sad sound, and Louis wants to reach out into the darkness and touch it, cup it between his palms and keep it warm. “You make me nervous,” Harry admits eventually, shrugging in a helpless sort of way. Louis’s throat is too tight to say anything, so he just nods. Harry shakes his head again, tugging his scarf off before pulling it back on, a fidgety, useless movement before he blurts, “Can I please hold your hand? Is that okay? I just, I want—”

Louis is uncurling his fist before he can think better of it, extended fingers white and awkward and trembling between them, clammy with sweat. “Of course,” he says in a high, strangled voice. Harry looks relieved, taking Louis’s hands and lacing their fingers, pressing his palm flush. 

“Thank you,” he says, squeezing, and Louis feels a little better and a lot more grounded now that they’re touching. Harry just feels so _good_ , always warmer and more solid than Louis expects, than any single person should be. Louis wants to fall into him, pull his body close and crush him into his chest, breathe him in and ask, _Will you just tell me what you want, please?_

When they make it to the mostly dead fire, Louis coughs in the smoke, using his free hand to shield his mouth. “Want to sit down?” he whispers, gesturing to a bench, but Harry isn’t moving anymore, hand vice-tight and sweat-slick in Louis’s. 

“No, um, I don’t think so. I just…can I have your other hand?” he asks even though he’s already taking it, standing directly in front of Louis with his head bent, their hands joined. Louis feels like he’s at an altar or something, which sort of makes him want to die. His heart is in his throat, pounding so hard that he’s _sure_ Harry can hear the frantic two-beat thud of it, fierce and too-fast, giving everything away. “Okay,” Harry says, taking a deep, shuddering breath, eyes fixed on the empty vacancy between their hands. “I need to ask you some things. About your question,” he adds carefully.

Louis nods, wondering when he became a one-word-or-less-answer type of guy, capable only of stilted body movements and singular grunting syllables, while the boy he’s in love with is genuine and vulnerable and open. It’s embarrassing, and Harry deserves better, but Louis _still_ can’t really talk. “Okay,” he makes himself say, squeezing Harry’s hands. “Go ahead.”

“Okay,” Harry echoes on a rattling inhalation, eyes nothing but flashes of glittering black, reflecting a single pinprick of dusky orange from the last dying embers. They look very wet, and Louis imagines thumbing across the lower lid, collecting the overflow, and sucking it off. “So. I guess first things first. Um, I need to know…were you being serious?” Harry asks. It comes out in a clumsy rush, and it should make sense, but it _doesn’t_. 

Louis blinks for a few seconds, cheeks suddenly hot, scalp prickly, and he tries to assemble those words into something he can process. “What?” he blurts eventually, because Harry’s eyes are so wide, his grip so tight, terrified, and he doesn’t even know what he’s _asking_. “What do you mean?” 

“Were you, um, being serious, with the card? Or was it a joke?” Harry clarifies, speaking very slowly, words stumbling into each other, slurring. 

Louis stares, and then it _hits_ him. The terrible implication, the mere _thought_ that he would ever joke about something like that. “Oh, god, Harry. No. No, not at all, of course I wasn’t joking,” he explains in a rush. “Was it the horse stickers? Should I have just asked you to your face, or—”

“Oh, my god,” Harry gasps, releasing Louis’s hands so he can cover his face, like he’s embarrassed, head bowed and shoulders trembling. “So, you were really asking me that?” he asks, voice reedy and muffled from behind his palms.

“Yes! Wait, did you…this whole time, did you think I was _joking_?!” Louis asks, a cold dread unfurling in his gut because he couldn’t have misjudged the situation _this badly_ , he’s not _prepared_ for this, for Harry to realize _in real time_ what Louis _wants_ , what he was asking. “Fuck, Harry, I’m sorry, I didn’t know—”

“No, no, you’re fine, it was _me_ , Niall said you were probably being serious but, I just couldn’t _believe_ …I thought it had to be a joke, and I didn’t want to _hope_ too hard if that wasn’t what you meant,” he mumbles, almost to himself more than Louis, and Louis is fucking _reeling_ , breath coming so fast and uneven that he’s lightheaded. _Couldn’t believe what?_ he wants to ask, _What do you mean, ‘hope too hard?’_ but he can’t speak, all he can do is stand there, hands held stiffly in front of him, having not yet recovered from Harry letting them go. “Okay, so what exactly, then, did you mean by _boyfriend_?” Harry asks sharply, fingers still carding nervously through his hair, skittering and tremulous shapes in the night, and Louis wants to take them again, hold Harry’s wrists and feel his pulse, keep him still enough to figure out _what the fuck he’s talking about._

“I meant, like…boyfriend. I don’t know. My boyfriend. Where we hook up like we are, but also it…I don’t know,” his voice cuts out because he doesn’t know how to operationalize _boyfriend_ , he doesn’t know if he has it in him to say mortifying words like _exclusive_ and _serious_ when he knows Harry has already said wanting as much is impractical. “You said you wanted what I wanted, and it’s that, so. Yeah. I asked you.” 

“Okay,” Harry breathes, eyes darting to his pigeon-toed feet again. “Like…summer boyfriend or…longer-than-that boyfriend?” 

“Harry,” Louis breathes, shaking his head because _fuck_ , he would give Harry anything. Forever, if that wasn't an absurd thing to bring up in this moment. He swallows, throat aching over the words, “I’ll be your boyfriend as long as you want me to be. It doesn’t just have to be for the summer.” 

Harry is quiet for a few loaded seconds during which he puts his hands over his nose and mouth to breathe harshly and unsteadily for a few seconds, eyes shut. He looks like someone attempting to keep from fainting, and Louis would probably be concerned if he, too, wasn’t also attempting to keep from fainting and therefore preoccupied. Finally, Harry takes a deep breath and says, “Okay,” in a shaky voice. “Okay. I, um, I need to tell you some things about me, and then if you still want to, knowing these things, I’d…God. I’d really, really like that.” 

Louis’s stomach plummets in dual terror and disbelief. Harry would really, really like that. Would really like for Louis to be his boyfriend. Louis has been waiting to hear this for entirely too long, but now that he _has_ heard it, it doesn’t seem _real_ , it’s too fucking good to be true. He also can’t think of a single thing Harry might tell him that would change what he wants. He briefly runs through a list of horrific confessions, like, _I murdered a man once,_ or _my family members are Republicans,_ neither of which is plausible knowing how Harry doesn’t even like to kill bugs and that his mom sort of looks like a hippie. Louis isn’t sure either of those things would really deter him, anyway. 

Then it occurs to him that it could be a more personal confession, like, _I’m closeted at home,_ or _I just realized I’m actually a girl, and I’m planning to transition soon_. Still, neither of those possibilities would change Louis’s mind one _bit_ because he wouldn’t mind having a closeted boyfriend if that boyfriend were Harry, and he wouldn’t mind having a girlfriend if that girlfriend were Harry. _I just want you,_ he thinks desperately, heart up in his throat, choking him silent. _However you are_. He manages to slow his breathing enough to ask, “Okay, what things?” 

“God,” Harry murmurs, tilting his face up to the stars and wrinkling his nose, cringing. “This is…it’s really hard to say. I’m sorry.” 

Louis wants to touch him. Reach out and take his shoulders in hand and pull him close, enfold his whole gangly body up against his own and say, _no matter what it is, I’m still going to want to be with you, so you don’t have to worry. If you want me, you have me._ He can sense Harry isn’t ready to be touched right now, though; he’s half-pacing and jittery and nervous, shifting his weight around and snagging his hands through his hair. “Hey, it’s alright,” Louis murmurs. “Take your time.” 

“Fuck,” Harry says, squeezing his eyes shut tight for a few seconds before hiding his face again. “You’re so sweet. I _want_ to tell you, I just. Ugh. Okay, okay. Okay,” he breathes, putting his hands out in front of him and making a short, abortive motion, like he’s wiping a slate clean. Louis waits patiently until Harry starts up again. “So, you know how I told you the other night that I’ve liked you for a long time?” 

“Yeah?” Louis answers carefully, arms crossed and locked on his elbows, as they’re shaking too badly to put anywhere else. “Was that…not true?” 

“No! God. It was true. Like, so true. It’s just, not _only_ that?” Harry says. 

“Okay,” Louis urges, nodding, waiting. 

“Um. Like. I _really_ , really liked you. _Like_ you, present tense,” he explains, looking pretty much anywhere but at Louis. 

“I like you, too,” Louis blurts out, and that slows Harry down for a second, makes him freeze, his breath catching as he finally meets Louis’s eyes, if only for the most searing and fleeting second. 

“Really?” he asks, and there isn’t enough time in the world for Louis to fit all the reasons why but still he wants so badly to tell him, _yes, yes, yes, really, more than I can ever explain. It feels like it’s breaking me most days, like my heart doesn’t even belong to me anymore because it’s yours_. He can’t spill all that out, though, not in the middle of Harry’s confession, anyway, so he flicks his gaze to the soft grey smoke still billowing from the last of the fire and just nods. Harry sighs quietly in response before inhaling sharply and continuing, “I like you _so much,_ Louis, and I feel, like, um, you need to know how much? Because I think people sometimes get into relationships or date sort of to fall in love. Maybe eventually. But I think sometimes it can get weird when one person is _already_ super in love with the other one. And maybe you might not want that. To start a relationship with me if—”

“Are you telling me you’re in love with me?” Louis asks. His ears are suddenly ringing, blood rushing in his head, and he’s cutting Harry off before he even recognizes that the strangled voice he’s hearing actually belongs to _him_. 

Harry stops, blinks, paralyzed there in the darkness for a few beats before he softens a little and admits,“Yes.” He folds his shaking hands in front of his chest before adding, “I know that’s a lot, and, like…I really do understand if that changes things for you.” 

“ _Jesus christ_ ,” Louis hisses, raking his hands once through his own hair before striding meaningfully to Harry, crossing the tense two-foot divide between them so he can _touch, finally_ , finally. He doesn’t know what to grab first, so it’s messy, uncoordinated, his hands sliding up Harry’s forearms to his shoulders before sinking into the tangled mess of his hair, pushing his scarf off accidentally before Louis cups his cheeks, holding him tightly as he says, “Why did you think I wouldn’t want... _fuck, Harry_. Thank you for telling me, thank you,” he babbles, thumbing over the corners of Harry’s mouth, loving the shuddering huff of air that comes out of him, like he’s so scared, like he wants so much. It takes everything in Louis’s body to hold off on kissing the breath out of him long enough to say, “Harry Styles, I am so fucking in love with you. I’ve been going crazy all summer,” he whispers harshly, standing on his tiptoes to press their brows together, both of their balances wavering as they stumble, clumsy and tangled and staggering. “So, you’ll be my boyfriend?” 

Harry whines in the back of his throat, eyes fluttering closed, face crumpled in overwhelm for a moment before he throws his arms around Louis’s neck. The force of it knocks the breath out of him, so Louis gasps as Harry whispers a fierce,“God, _yes_ , yes, yes, yes, yes,” hands all over Louis’s back, rucking up under his hoodie to find skin. “I will.” 

Louis pushes his face into Harry’s hair to breathe him in, kissing the shell of his ear, the line of his cheekbone, anything he can reach since he can’t get to Harry’s mouth right now. He can feel the whole of Harry’s body shaking in his arms as he holds him and nearly trips under his weight, just so fucking glad to _touch_ , to hear his teeth chatter, to ride the tremor of his half-sob, half-laughs. Finally, Harry relents enough to pull back and wipe his eyes, smiling so radiantly. Louis ducks in, kissing his dimple before licking his smile, making Harry squeak. “Are you crying?” he asks, moved. 

“Yeah, a little,” Harry answers, sort of vibrating. “I just…fuck. I love you. I can’t believe this is happening.” 

“I love you, too,” Louis sighs, his whole body exhaling as he says it, losing some of the tightly wound tension he’d been building up over the course of the day, over the course of the _summer_ , in incremental fractions. It feels amazing to allow it to touch the air, this truth that’s been festering inside him, expanding between his lungs, crowding his insides until there was room for nothing else. “I love you,” he says again, letting it out. His lips brush against Harry’s cheek, and when he licks it, it tastes of salt. “How could I not?”

Harry kind of squawks, throwing his head back for a peal of snorting laughter before dropping it back down to Louis’s shoulder. Louis marvels at him, rubbing his palm up his spine and just leaving it there between his scapulae, feeling him inhale as they stand, swaying. “I didn’t think it was _possible_ , didn’t think…I don’t know. You always seemed unattainable, too good to be true. Told you I’ve loved you since I was sixteen. The boys you love when you’re sixteen don’t love you back.” 

“I do,” Louis tells him, fingers creeping tenderly up into his hair. “I did. I’ve liked you for forever, too. I would have been your boyfriend when you were sixteen, if I’d known,” he confesses, stomach knotting up a little at the embarrassing truth of it. _I loved you in purple supras. I loved you sunburnt and soft-bodied and silly_. 

“You _wouldn’t_ have, I mean, you’re forgetting how awful I was, my _hair_ ,” Harry giggles, breath tickling against Louis’s neck, hands warm as they continue to rove hungrily up inside his shirt, just _touching_ , aimless and self-indulgent. Louis _loves_ the way Harry touches him; it makes him feel small and sexy and desperately wanted, like he’s exactly what Harry wants. “Plus, I was so weird. Like, I did so many weird, embarrassing things… _Louis_ , all my friends at home know about you...I stalked your Facebook and showed them pictures when I came out. I was so obsessed. Like. Are you _sure_ —”

“I’m _sure_. I’m so sure,” Louis mumbles into Harry’s shoulder, knees suddenly weak with the insanity of this, the knowledge that all the time he was spending drunk-lusting over Harry Styles, Harry Styles was finding him on Facebook, thinking about him, looking at his pictures. “You’re perfect. Introduce me to your friends, I don’t care, I’ll meet them, and they can tease you about me. I don’t think you, like, _get_ how serious I am,” he explains, tugging Harry back by his hair so he can look at him and all his shadows, his blush visible and blotchy even in the dark. “M’not kidding when I said I liked you then, too. Just ask Zayn. I’ve had a crush on you for absolutely forever, and he’s gonna be so relieved I’m not gonna be crying about it anymore.” 

Harry shivers as he inhales. “This is so surreal for me,” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded under the soft dark flutter of his lashes. “To think you’d talk to Zayn about me at all…it’s just. Crazy. I feel like I could wake up any second now, and this is gonna be, like, the most amazing dream.” 

_You’re not dreaming...if this is a dream, it’s mine_ , Louis thinks, but Harry is licking his lips, which are so soft looking and plush and peaked, and he wants to bite them, he wants to taste. 

“Can I kiss you?” Louis whispers against Harry’s ear, still thinking, _it’s not a dream, you’re not a dream, you’re real, and you’re here_ , just as Harry pulls back, gaze locked on Louis’s mouth.

“Please,” he exhales against Louis’s mouth, the last soft sound of it getting crushed between their lips, sweetened as Louis licks up inside him where he’s hot and wet and tear-salty. 

The kiss knocks them both off balance, so much built-up want and new relief converging that Louis forgets how to stand, how to be stable. He stumbles, but it doesn’t matter because there’s nothing in the world but Harry’s mouth, slick and plush as Louis fucks it open with his tongue, swallowing Harry’s groans, making fists in his hair to hold him exactly where he wants him so he can just _drown_. Harry is slack against him, clumsy, and they’re tipping, breaking apart with a gasp just before they fall. “God,” Louis breathes, hands all over Harry’s chest, shoulders, arms. “I wish…I want you in my _bed_ ,” he growls, a filthy image of Harry spread out naked and golden on white sheets flashing through his mind, _his_ to take apart, mark up, open around his fingers. 

Harry whimpers, fisting in Louis’s hoodie and chasing his mouth. “Me, too, I wanna be in your bed, I want you to do whatever you want to me,” he groans between heated, rough kisses. “I want you to use my mouth. It’s all I think about,” he murmurs, palming down over Louis’s thigh, just to the left of his hardening cock, and Louis chokes because Harry’s _mouth_ is sinful, not to mention the things that are _coming out of it_. 

“Yeah?” he breathes, biting Harry’s lower lip before flicking his tongue over it, thumbing over the cut of his jaw before pushing that thumb past his teeth, into his searing mouth. “Is that what you want?” he asks, and Harry makes a broken sound, eyes fluttering closed as Louis replaces his thumb with his first and middle fingers, giving Harry more to suck, more to get his mouth around. He can’t believe how _hot_ he is inside, the softness of Harry’s tongue flicking around his knuckles, the wet froth of drool he pushes out as he chokes himself. “God, look at you...want it so bad,” Louis marvels, holding Harry flush up against him with his other arm tight around his lower back. “So pretty,” he sighs, pulling his hand out, heart stopping at the way Harry whines at the loss, craning his neck.

“I want it _so_ bad, want to blow you, want you,” Harry begs, mouth wet and open on the side of Louis’s face. 

“Here?” Louis jokes, palming up Harry’s sides, then down his back to cup his ass. “Where we sing ‘A Letter From Camp’? I don’t think so.” He turns to kiss him, and Harry makes it filthy, gets Louis’s tongue into his mouth and sucks on it hard, fumbling between their bodies with clumsy, needy hands. 

“I don’t care, just want to,” he whimpers, cupping Louis’s cock through his sweats, his hand so warm and big and perfect that Louis’s knees nearly buckle. “I love you,” he says then, thumbing up Louis’s shaft reverently, just feeling him out through his clothes, slow with awe. “I just want to make you feel good, I wanna be good for you,” he whispers, and Louis is about three seconds from _letting_ him drop to his knees in the dirt since it's clear he wants to, and he wants to give Harry everything he wants.

“Fuck,” he moans, “I love you, too, so much. Wish we had somewhere to go, somewhere private.” And he’s about to suggest the locker room, even though he _knows_ most counselors like to shower around this time, when Harry goes for it, pushing under his waistband with a needy hand. Then Louis forgets how to talk, forgets why he was saying _no_ in the first place. 

“I don’t care,” Harry slurs, wrapping his fingers around Louis and pumping, his grip tight and hot and so good that Louis’s vision whites out. “Let me touch you, at least. Please.” 

Louis is helpless against Harry’s _pleases_. He clutches at Harry’s shoulders, tight and breathless as Harry messily jacks him off, no rhythm or finesse, but it doesn’t even matter because his hand is so warm and so big, and it’s _Harry_ , and even just being this close to him and breathing his breath makes Louis dizzy with arousal. He braces his shoes against the ground and tries not to slip as he leans into Harry, fucking up into his hand, feeling himself get twitchy and hot, wet at the tip, sensitive as Harry thumbs over it. “God, I love the way you feel,” Harry mumbles, huffing against Louis’s neck. “Am I doing this right? Does it feel good?” 

“ _God,_ Harry, yeah, feels so good, m’easy for you,” Louis groans, hips stuttering as he fucks Harry’s fist, thumbs digging into his shoulder as he holds on, half-lost. It’s true, he _is_ easy for Harry, but he also loves his inexperience and has a thousand fantasies of teaching Harry how to do everything, like how to swallow him down perfectly, how to arch his back when he’s on his hands and knees so the angle is better. He gasps, cock flexing in Harry’s grip. “Doing so good, baby, m’so close,” Louis slurs, the whole of it slipping out of him easily, naturally, before he has a chance to think better of it.

“Oh, god,” Harry chokes out, hand getting tighter, moving faster. “Love you calling me baby...I wanna be your baby,” he gasps, bucking against Louis as they stand braced together, his hand working between the humid shift of their bodies. It’s graceless, but its so desperate, it’s good, it’s _wonderful_ , and Louis’s stomach is tightening up, thighs quaking as he teeters on the precipice. “I wanna make you come,” Harry whimpers, and he’s _going to_ , Louis is so close.

“ _Baby_ , baby, you’re so perfect, just keep touching me,” he hisses, gritting his teeth, breath right against Harry’s ear, his entire body electric and flickering, nothing but static. Harry is panting sweet and hot over Louis’s mouth, and it tastes _so good_ , and as Louis arches his neck up to kiss him, he lets go, hips locking up and snapping as he empties himself between them. Harry strokes him through it, firm and trembling, whimpering into his mouth. 

It’s so fucking good, and it’s only a clumsy standing handjob by a smoking campfire in the middle of the fucking woods. Louis lets out a gasping laugh as they part, so _stunned_ that any of this is happening, that he is somehow so lucky, so in love. 

“Fuck,” Harry exhales, freeing his hand from Louis’s shorts so that he can bring it up to look at, shaking and glistening with ribbons of sticky white. Then he’s sucking his fingers off, groaning around them, half-collapsed against Louis’s shoulder as he grinds his own hard cock against his thigh. “Can’t get over how good you taste,” he whispers, shivering as Louis shoves a hand under his waistband to get to his cock. 

It takes close to nothing to get him off. Louis wraps his fingers around him and pumps him through his stilted, desperate bucks, eyes wide and awed at the way Harry’s mouth has fallen open, gasping and lovely, swollen from kisses. Louis inhales his ragged breath, palm moving hot and slick around his length until he comes hard in his sweats, a line through his brow and eyes scrunched shut. “That’s it, baby, good,” he praises as Harry finishes in shivers, fingers still trembling over his cock, sensitive and twitching. “Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he says then, kissing the corner of Harry’s gasping mouth. “Want everything with you.” 

“You have everything,” Harry sighs, raising his hand so he can draw his trembling, spit-damp fingers down the side of Louis’s face tenderly before pushing them up into his hair. “If you really want it.” 

Louis laughs, astounded and elated and so fucking amazed. _I want it_ , he thinks as he catches Harry’s mouth in a deep kiss, answering him with tongue, with teeth. _I want it all_.


	12. Chapter 12

When Niall’s alarm goes off in the morning, too early for the sun to even be up, it takes Louis a few moments of hazy blinking to place the feeling of elation in his chest. He blinks in the semi-darkness, feeling lightweight and ecstatic, like he’s made of spun sugar. Then he realizes his perspective is different, that he’s not in _his_ bunk but the one below it. _Harry’s_. 

He notices the way his arm is distantly tingling, asleep where it’s tossed over the body in front of him, curled around a broad ribcage, faintly sticky with sleep-sweat. Then it all comes rushing back. _Harry_. Harry’s swollen mouth and his bright, scared eyes and his confessions in the dark, the smell of wood-smoke and the way it felt to hear him say, _I love you, I’ve loved you for two years_ , over and over again, muffled against skin. Louis shudders, face splitting into an impossible grin as he buries his nose into the tangle of curls at the back of Harry’s head, loving the way it tickles his nose, the way he smells like fire, like _home._ “Baby,” he says gently, because he _can_ , voice morning-scratchy and weak. 

Harry stirs awake, finding Louis’s hand where it’s splayed over his chest. “Hi,” he mumbles, eyes shut tight and flickering beneath the lids as he wrinkles his nose, smiling. “You’re still here.” 

“I am,” Louis whispers, kissing down the back of Harry’s neck, chest tight with how much he _feels_ , how miraculous it is to wake up holding Harry, his spine pressed into his chest, their legs twined so he can feel Harry’s hair shift against his own as they stir. It’s perfect, really, even though they’re still at _camp_ , they’re still in a shitty cabin with their friends, there’s still no privacy, and they’re still too young for forever, maybe. But Louis can’t even care when this is happening, when Harry rolls over under the weight of his arm to look him in the eye, sleep crusted on his lashes, the sweetest and most vulnerable thing. 

“You still love me?” Harry asks, thumbing over Louis’s jaw gently, blinking. 

Louis’s heart clenches, and he bends to kiss Harry, soft and chaste on the corner of his mouth, which is such a lovely deep red now that he’s chewed it so much that it’s chapped. “Nah, I reconsidered the whole thing in my sleep, actually, and now I’m not so sure…,” he starts, but Harry makes fists in his shirt and stiffens up, gasping even though he knows he’s joking. Louis dissolves into a peal of laughter, carding a hand reassuringly though Harry’s curls. “I’m kidding! Of _course_ , of course. I love you so much, Harry.” 

“ _God_ , you guys,” Niall gripes from his bunk, tossing a pillow across the room in their general direction. It sails through the air but falls just short of their bunk, instead skidding to a stop on the floor. “M’happy for you all, but _god_. I can’t wake up every morning with those two making _wet sounds_ and you two talking like you’re in a fucking Kate Hudson rom-com or something, I’m not a _saint_.” 

“ _Wet sounds?!”_ Louis yelps, ripping his eyes away from the little constellation of freckles on Harry’s cheek he’s been admiring so that he can shoot daggers across the room at Zayn’s _woefully empty bunk_ before making a scandalized face as he turns to Liam’s. “Okay, that’s _vile_ , I mean, at least we sneak out and give Niall a break if we’re gonna fool around, but you two just go at it? I’m _horrified_ ,” he says, even though he’s sort of too lost in the feeling of Harry smoothing his palms up his chest under his shirt to actually be angry or even fake-angry at anything. 

Zayn sits up in Liam’s bunk, stretching, hair a dark wreck across his forehead. “Well, we can’t go to the locker room because you guys might be there. We don’t wanna walk in on that.” 

Harry covers his mouth to muffle a hiccuping laugh, face in his hands and cheeks so fucking pink, clearly embarrassed and delighted, and Louis wants him like that always, flushed and bright-eyed and gorgeous in his bed. He bends to kiss him right between the eyes, beaming. “Maybe we can work out a schedule,” he says then, shrugging. 

“Maybe I can work out another cabin situation,” Niall grumbles, hopping out of his bunk. “I bring you guys my nice weed from home and all the best junk food, and you turn this cabin into a fucking gay orgy palace.” 

“No orgies, please,” Liam begs. “Hey, Nialler, we’re sorry, we really are. How about…how about tonight we all hang out as a group? Another Boys Bash, to finish off that weed before it gets stale?” 

Louis, who’s unsure if weed actually does get stale because it never lasts long enough in his possession for him to find out, nods eagerly, wrapping his arm around Harry’s shoulders and drawing him close, up along his side, as a boyfriend might do because _they’re boyfriends_. It’s the best thing that’s ever happened in his life, and of course part of him wants to utilize the locker room so he can get back under Harry’s clothes, but he also wants to _do boyfriendy things with him_. Hold his hand and kiss his cheek while Niall plays Destiny’s Child covers brilliantly adapted for guitar as they all sing along. Smoke with him and share candy with him and sit in a circle with their friends, laughing about whatever weird things the kids said over the course of the day, about whatever awful patterned socks Ben Winston wore at campfire. He just wants to _be_ with him, share space with him, laugh with him, play with his hair, and know they’re _together_ , that Harry is _his_. His boyfriend, his baby. “I never think your ideas are good, Payno, so consider it a massive compliment when I say that idea sounds _lovely_ ,” he offers.

Niall’s mood is instantly improved. He perks up, ruffles his hair into a semblance of style with his palms, and grins. “That’s more like it! I was trying to say I was feeling left out without actually saying I felt left out. I miss you guys and want to hang, but I don’t want, like…any part of _this_ ,” he says, vaguely gesturing around the room. “No offense.” 

“None taken,” Zayn mumbles, rubbing his eyes like everything that’s happening is happening way too early. “Boys Bash after dinner, then? Should I steal cups?” 

“Cups and ice!” Niall crows, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Hopefully, we won’t go _too_ hard tonight, and I’ll be able to actually hit my targets in archery tomorrow. So embarrassing, as a counselor, to be too hungover to do your fucking job.” 

They all grumble in agreement as they slide out of their bunks to get dressed, Louis and Harry trailing along too slowly because it’s fucking _hard_ to get out of bed when all you want to do is kiss the boy in it. 

Louis pulls on his breeches and Harry watches, still curled up in his sleeping bag, eyes glittering and index finger in his mouth. “What are you looking at?” Louis jokes, wiggling his hips as he pulls the elastic up over his ass then lets it snap back down, knowing full well how he looks. 

“You know,” Harry whispers, reluctantly kicking out of the bunk, sighing as he bends over his duffle bag, which holds his rumpled mess of clothes. He gazes at them and frowns, looking uninspired. “I just…would much rather stay here today and do stuff with you,” he finishes, and well. Louis quite agrees. 

They get dressed together stealing heated looks and coy smiles, and Louis thinks they might even be _subtle_ about it because no one has thrown anything at them yet. 

The other boys finish up and leave for breakfast, and Louis waits by the door while Harry pulls on his boots, painfully aware that they’re _alone_ , even if it’s only for a few seconds. “Harry, I love the way you watch me, the way you look at me,” he admits in a hush even though there’s no one around to hear, arms crossed over his chest, hip popped out. “It makes me feel really hot.” 

Harry looks up at him from where he’s sitting on the edge of the bed with wide eyes, his mouth parted and lovely. “You _are_ really hot,” he tells him, standing unsteadily, tottering there like he’s waiting for something. “Like, unbelievably hot. Can’t even look away, really, and it’s gonna be so much harder now that I know I _can_ look, that you’re _mine_ ,” he says, cheeks coloring spectacularly, lips flattening out like he’s trying to hide a smile. 

Louis can’t resist. He’s on him in seconds, pushing him up against the bunk and kissing him hard, hands in his hair, messing it up deliberately so that he’ll have to do the cute _thing_ he always does, combing it forward over his face before shaking it back, always the same three-part motion. Harry gasps, clutching at Louis’s shoulders so he doesn’t fall. “You are mine, right?” he asks as Louis pulls away, inhaling shakily because _fuck_ , he needs to get a hold of himself. He has to go eat a bagel or something so that he’s not teaching his morning lessons on an empty stomach because as much as it _feels_ like it, loving Harry alone isn’t enough to sustain him in this heat.

“So very yours,” Louis assures him, nipping at Harry’s smile. “Don’t stop looking at me. Do it all day...think about how good it’s gonna be when you get me tonight, okay?” 

“Okay,” Harry says on an exhale, nodding like taking orders is something he’s comfortable doing, _happy_ doing, even. It’s one of a million different things Louis can sense about him that he wants to further explore, push, and examine now that he knows he _can_ , that Harry is his to figure out. And it’s wonderful because he has the _whole rest of the summer_ to do it, to take his time and discover, with careful hands and patience and hunger. With everything that there is in him.

Louis smiles and kisses Harry once chastely before stepping away and saying, “Okay, good boy.” 

Harry’s eyes flash black as the pink on his cheek deepens, and Louis _loves_ that. Loves every little thing about him, Harry Styles, his boyfriend, his endless summer. And there are so many _things_ he wants to do, but for now he swallows and wipes his trembling hands on the dirty front of his breeches. “Breakfast?” he adds, and Harry nods. 

They walk to the main compound not quite hand in hand, but Louis’s heart jolts every time their knuckles brush, easy and charged. _I love you,_ he thinks before he remembers he can _say_ it now, so just before they push open the heavy swinging door to the mess hall, he nudges Harry's hand with his own, catching his eyes to mouth it to him. 

Harry blushes and whispers it back, and Louis feels like he’s bursting.


	13. Epilogue

—- six weeks later—-

 

Louis hefts the clunky Western saddle over Oliver’s back before reaching under his belly and grabbing the cinch strap. He tightens and fastens it in increments, well aware of Harry lingering a few feet behind him and shifting his weight anxiously from foot to foot, feet that are looking adorably if not comically huge in a pair of borrowed cowboy boots.

After weeks of begging and pleading, Louis has managed to get permission from Ben Winston to give Harry a riding lesson, and as excited as he is to get Harry and his pretty thighs up on a horse, he can _tell_ how worried Harry is, can sense the fear coming off him in waves. “How are you feeling?” he asks, adjusting the blanket beneath the weight of the saddle, making sure everything is smoothed out and even.

“Um,” Harry says, kicking at the dirt with his heel and looking for all the world like Woody from _Toy Story_ or something. Louis loves him, loves how miraculously cute and out of place and semi-disastrous he looks in Liam’s baggy but also too short Levis. Just… _loves_ him. Is into this thing so fucking deep he’ll probably never recover, probably never wants to. “Sorta like I’m watching you prepare my grave.” 

“You know you don’t _have_ to do this, love,” Louis reminds him, lengthening the stirrups. He steals a glance at Harry’s stupidly long and gangly legs before pursing his lips and bringing the leathers down a few additional holes. Harry’s gonna need all the stirrup length he can get, with legs like that. “Like, if you aren’t ready, that’s fine. It’s only if you really want to, for yourself. Don’t do it for me...I’m just as happy with you on the ground.”

“I do really want to!” Harry protests. “Or at least I think I do. Or I _did_ , back when we were just, like, _talking about it_ ,” he sighs, tilting his head back and carding his hands through his hair. “They’re just so _tall_.” 

“I’ll be right here,” Louis reminds him, shooting a winning smile over his shoulder, which Harry returns a somewhat wobbly version of. “I won’t let you fall.” 

Harry blushes, and Louis’s stomach drops, and this…this is how things are now. It’s been six weeks of frantic kisses behind locked doors, middle-of-the-night locker room trysts, and an alternating schedule of Sunday afternoon cabin use with Liam and Zayn. It took about ten days for the pervasive fear that Harry would realize Louis wasn’t all he imagined and move on to some prettier boy to wear off, for Louis to really accept and settle into the mind-blowing truth that Harry is as stupidly head over heels as he is. Since then, they’ve talked about Harry transferring to CalArts in LA, about looking for an off-campus apartment together next year when Louis can get out of the dorms. They’re moving fast, but it doesn’t seem reckless, at least not to Louis, who has been at least half-dreaming of getting _truly_ domestic with Harry for at least as long as he’s known him. Besides, if they’ve both wanted this for two years, is it _really_ moving quickly? Louis isn’t sure. He also doesn’t _care_ , not with Harry right there with him, hungry for the same things, the same life together. It’s surreal, but no one is not gonna catch Louis complaining. 

“So, what are you doing?” Harry asks, voice even but tight all at once, mumbly around the thumbnail that he’s chewing. Louis spins on his heel to look at him, startled out of his reverie. Harry’s standing there beside the mounting block with his shoulders gathered around his ears, bunched up in apprehension, eyes wet and dark and scared, and something inside Louis flutters and freezes up and melts all at once. Harry has this sort of power over him, to fill him with such a massive surge of warring feelings that he can’t even begin to identify them all, have words for them. It’s been insane. “What?!” Harry asks then, like he’s been taken aback by everything he sees in Louis’s eyes. 

Louis shakes his head, grinning. “Nothing,” he says gently. “Just. I love you.” 

Harry smiles back, cheeks getting pink. “I love you, too, _clearly_ , as I’m climbing on a moving animal _voluntarily_. And… I wanna know what you’re doing. Talk me through your whole putting-stuff-on-horses-so-you-can-ride-them thing, so I can be distracted?”

“Just getting the stirrups long enough for your long-ass Tarzan legs,” Louis says conversationally, snapping the stirrup leather into place before walking over to Harry, brows raised. He takes his elbows in hand, thumbing into the sweaty ditches as he pulls Harry into his arms. “Breathe, baby.”

“Tarzan doesn’t have long legs, just arms,” Harry mumbles into Louis’s hair, ignoring the whole bit about breathing. He’s making a joke, but he’s trembling, a barely discernible tremor just under the skin, and it sort of breaks Louis’s heart, makes him spread his palms up Harry’s bicep and grip him there firmly. 

“You’re _so_ scared,” he teases, nuzzling into Harry’s jaw. “You’ve gotta relax, horses can _sense_ that—”

“I know!” Harry yelps, throwing his head back. “But thinking about it only makes me more nervous. Like, they can see through me, into my soul, and they know I’m weak. It’s unnerving,” he pouts, and Louis kisses his temple, tasting salt. 

“D’you really think I’d let anything happen to you?” he asks, and Harry sort of sags, hooking his arms around Louis’s back and squeezing him close. 

“No,” he huffs. “I don’t. M’just being a baby.” 

“My baby,” Louis murmurs, hot and soft against Harry’s ear, making him still before he shivers. Louis _loves_ any reaction he can get out of Harry, especially if he can make him squirm like _this_ , against Louis, in public. 

“Yeah,” Harry says quietly, letting his brow drop to Louis’s. “Yeah, I am.” 

“Are you ready for your very first riding lesson?” Louis asks, studying Harry’s face, his closed eyes, his flushed cheeks. “Remember, you don’t _have_ to.” 

“No, m’ready,” Harry sighs, shooting a nervous glance over Louis’s shoulder where Oliver stands, chewing his bit lazily. “Put me up there.” 

Louis kisses him once, fast and fierce and wet, humid because it’s still burning up outside, there’s sweat on both of their upper lips, and they really shouldn’t be doing this, not out in the open. Louis can’t stop himself, though; Harry tastes like copper and sunshine, leaving him dizzy as he pulls away. “Okay. Let’s get you in a helmet and mount up.” 

It takes a few tries, as Harry’s legs are sort of clumsy and uncoordinated on a good day, when he’s _not_ shaking with nerves, but Louis is patient, and eventually Harry gets his foot in the stirrup and manages to swing his other leg over Oliver’s back, lowering himself into the saddle lightly and unsteadily. “Nice job not thumping down heavily...Oliver thanks you,” Louis says gently, sliding a hand down Oliver’s neck before alighting it on Harry’s thigh, squeezing him gently through the denim. “You okay?” 

“Um. Yes. I think so. I don’t want to move yet, can we just…sit here?” he asks, eyes set on his own hands, which are glued to the saddle horn to keep them from shaking. 

Louis thumbs over the seam of his jeans, smiling. “Of course. Even if you do just this, it’ll be a huge accomplishment for a guy who wouldn’t even pet some ponies without severe encouragement a few weeks ago.” 

Harry smiles, gazing down at Louis from beneath the brim of his riding helmet with big eyes, looking very young and very absurd and like everything Louis has ever wanted in his entire life. “I had to psych myself up so much for that. But I just…I wanted to see you ride so badly.”

“And here you are now! Massive leaps and bounds,” Louis assures him, throwing the reins over Oliver’s neck and tugging them down toward the pommel, putting them in grabbing distance for Harry in the event he ever decides to let go of the horn and steer. 

“Okay…”Harry starts, inhaling deeply and sitting up tall. “I think… think I can move now. Maybe. Um, what do I do?” His eyes shift to Louis, dark and imploring, pupils so big Louis can see his own reflection in them. 

“Just keep holding on. I’ll walk him to the arena for you so you can get used to the motion. You don’t have to think about anything else, just relax, don’t resist it or anything,” he explains, patting Harry again reassuringly before collecting Oliver’s reins in a fist. “Are you ready?” 

Harry takes a deep breath, as if preparing to jump into very cold water. “Yeah,” he answers. “I think so.” His knuckles are white from his grip, but at least he isn’t squeezing with his legs, which are hanging loosely on either side of Oliver, heels popped up awkwardly because, of course, Harry doesn’t have the slightest idea about proper form. 

Louis reaches for the heel of his boot and squeezes. “Keep these down, if you can. It’ll feel weird, but it’ll also help you balance. And sit deep in the saddle with your weight centered as much as possible. We’re gonna walk just over there, to that arena gate, okay? Tell me to stop him if you feel like you’re gonna panic.” 

Harry nods sharply, and with that, Louis starts walking Oliver to the round pen. 

“Oh!” Harry yelps at the first few steps, weight awkwardly forward in the saddle and over Oliver’s neck. “That’s, like…wow.”

“Wow what?” Louis asks, keeping Oliver moving once he’s sure Harry has caught himself and won’t actually just fall right off. He knows how the first time can feel, how strange and alien the swaying shift and rhythm of a horse under saddle is when you’re not used to it. He’s coached countless kids through their first unsteady steps, but he’s never felt _quite_ so protective, so _concerned_ over a student’s well-being and comfort level as he is right now. He figures this is probably because his student is also his boyfriend, who he’s already a little illogical and absurd about. “You need me to stop?”

“No, no, I got it, it’s just _weird_...very side to side. I was sort of expecting, like, a rocking horse? But it’s not like that. I kind of remember it now, though, from the one traumatizing time I rode a pony at the Sonoma County Fair…I’m...m’good. Not gonna fall,” he says breathlessly, and he’s blanched white, but he’s sitting upright again, shoulders back and squared. 

“You look good...strong and solid up there. Just loosen up your hips, let ‘em rock in time with the steps,” Louis explains, getting to the gate and deftly opening it one-handed, letting it swing into the arena so he can walk Oliver in. 

“This is sort of hot,” Harry admits once they’re in and the gate is locked behind them, his voice low and shaky. “You ordering me around, telling me what to do. Like a proper riding instructor. I feel…I dunno, I feel safe, even though I’m scared. Like, you’ve got me.” 

“I do have you,” Louis reminds him, halting Oliver and stepping back so he can look up at Harry, beaming because _god_ he looks _cute_ up there, curls poking out from under his helmet, sweat on his brow. “I’m gonna teach you how to stop now, okay? I’ll stay right next to you, but you’ll be controlling him.” 

Harry sucks in a shaky inhalation, eyes darting to Oliver, who he manages to pat on the withers after unsticking his hand from the horn with some difficulty. “Okay. Be good,” he mumbles, picking up the reins gingerly and incorrectly. Louis smiles, taking his hands and fixing his fingers, aligning them along the worn leather so that he’s got the proper grip. Harry lets him, tremulous and unresisting. 

“You hold it like an ice cream cone, wrists straight and thumbs up, enough rein that you can make contact with the bit with only a little motion of pressure. And there…your pinkies under, just like that. Perfect, you’re doing so good, baby,” he praises, happy to make Harry smile, even as he’s fidgeting with anxiety. “Now you can open up your right or left arm to turn him in either direction, _or_ you can stop him by pulling them back until you feel resistance.” 

“So, pull back to stop? I’m mostly concerned about that, like…show me the brakes,” Harry mumbles, fists flexing on the reins. 

“Yep, straight back, toward your chest. But trust me, you’re gonna have a harder time getting him to go than you are getting him to stop. He’s lazy, he _likes_ stopping,” Louis explains. “For forward motion, you’re gonna squeeze with your legs, dig your heels in, and make a kissing sound.” 

“A kissing sound?!” Harry asks, eyebrows shooting up. “Crops and kissing sounds to make horses go faster...why didn’t you make kissing sounds when you hit _me_ with the crop?” he asks, pretending to pout, and it’s Louis’s time to blush because he _always_ blushes deeply and spectacularly every time The Crop Incident comes up. It’s just…they haven’t really had a chance to explore a lot of things within the constraints of camp life, and getting Harry back under a crop or his bare hand or anything capable of delivering a sharp crack, really, hasn’t been feasible, no matter how badly Louis wants it or how much he fantasizes about it. It’s something that’s going to have to wait until after camp, and Louis’s willing to wait, of course, but it’s still frustrating to _think_ about it, remembering the sounds Harry made, the way he bent so willingly in half, when he _can’t do anything_ to scratch that itch. 

“ _Harry,_ ” he hisses, scandalized. “I’m trying to teach you how to ride, I don’t need any inconvenient arena boners, thanks,” he snaps, but his hand is on the small of Harry’s back, suddenly, pushing under his shirt for just a moment, to feel the sweat-dewy dip there, to thumb over his spine. 

Harry gets a dreamy look in his eye and cocks his head. “Or we could stop, and you could bring me to the tack room again?” he suggests, and Louis _has_ to let him go, has to snatch his own hand back lest he dig his nails too hard into Harry’s skin, too much pressure and pain for such a delicate arrangement. 

“Fuck,” he says, glaring at Harry. “You’re bad. M’gonna finish this lesson, you know, no matter how hard you try to seduce your way out of it.” Harry’s eyes are dark as he looks down at Louis, hot and flickery and so, so in love. Louis feels silly for ever having doubted it now that he can see it, truly _see_ the way Harry looks at him, with so much longing and heat and intent and simple, unfaltering adoration. He gets this feeling Harry would do _anything_ for him, anything he asked him to and _god_ he wants to push that, try it. See how far it could go, how much he could ask for. “I love you,” he blurts again, arms crossed over his chest. “So much. Too much.”

Harry beams and blushes and shifts his weight in the saddle, all coy and squirmy for a moment, like he’s forgotten that he’s on a horse at all. “It could never be too much,” he reminds Louis. “I love you, too. I love you so much that I’m doing something terrifying because it’s something you love, and I want to love everything you love because I love you. So, can you, like, show me how to do it right? Make him move?” 

“Yes,” Louis answers emphatically. “I will. Really proud of you, by the way,” he adds, and Harry’s smile gets even bigger, brighter, the whole of the sunshine-sky reflecting back at Louis. 

“I’m proud of me, too,” he says, and Louis stands on his tiptoes to press a quick kiss to the swell of Harry’s hip before taking a step back and shoving his hands into his pockets. 

“Okay,” he says. “Try to make him go. Let’s see what you’ve got.” 

Harry takes a deep breath and makes a kissing sound.


End file.
